


O Soave Fanciulla

by Sherwings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Case Fic, Christmas Fluff, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Heartwarming, Idiots in Love, Introspection, John POV, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock in Italy, M/M, Making Out, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, Opera allusions galore, Original Character(s), Post-Season/Series 03, Series 4 AU/Fix-it, post series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwings/pseuds/Sherwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the first Christmas since that fateful one months previous; the day where Sherlock killed Magnussen. It was a choice that became the catalyst which unraveled the lives of John and Sherlock once again.</p><p>And nothing has been the same since. </p><p>If John were to be honest, in reality nothing has been the same since Sherlock returned from his self-imposed exile of two years. A time John prefers to never, ever think about.</p><p> </p><p>Months later, John and Sherlock remain at a seemingly insurmountable impasse neither man knows how to cross. Could a request from Mycroft, a trip to Milan, and an unexpected case with a meddling Doctor give them the resolution and answers they need in order to heal?</p><p>Ultimately, John Watson's life is not yet finished being turned upside down. Life with Sherlock Holmes is never predictable nor easy after all.</p><p>Perhaps the hardest, and most rewarding, lesson that needs to be learned is not just learning to move on, but finally being able to embrace a love that has always existed but never fully realized or given a chance to blossom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! :) I'm here with another Secret Santa fic this year, inspired by this wonderful prompt:
> 
> 'What I’d like to read – Johnlock, case fic with different setting OR a romantic Christmas Season 4 fixit (sigh…)  
> What I don’t read – non-con, any pairing involving Moriarty or Magnusson, child or animal abuse (again, allusions to the above in the past are a maybe), threesomes involving Mary…  
> Prompt – “There was no way he was going to sit through the entire Ring Cycle just to please Mycroft.” (but I’d be happy as a lark with any opera allusions at all…)'
> 
> A few things: First, I do not speak Italian, and time constraints prevented me from finding someone who did. I tried to research translations as best I could, if anyone here spots mistakes let me know and I will attempt to correct them accordingly. 
> 
> Second, there is an allusion to domestic abuse (NOT between Sherlock and John), but it is only mentioned in passing and not graphically described.
> 
> And finally, tears of frustration may have been shed in the process of writing this (as what often happens in the writing process...xD), but it was very enjoyable for me and I want to thank everyone involved in this years Sherlock Fan Forum Secret Santa Fan Fic Exchange! <3
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

'O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso  
Di mite circonfuso alba lunar,  
In te ravviso il sogno  
Ch'io vorrei sempre sognar!'

 _(Oh! sweet little lady! Oh, sweetest vision,_  
_With moonlight bathing your pretty face!_  
_The dream that I see in you is the dream I'll always dream!)_

 

 

 

 

 

John Watson is cold. _Very_ cold. He thought being farther south would be at least a bit warmer, but apparently Milan is determined to have an authentic white Christmas this year; brilliant for tourists, downright unpleasant for John’s poorly gloved hands. Unfortunately for John there’s a hole in his coat pocket, which he didn’t notice before, essentially allowing one hand to be toasty warm while the other slowly freezes to death. It has been said that John isn’t the only drama queen in 221b. John would argue that when you live with Sherlock Holmes for _years,_ becoming more dramatic is the least of concerns.

One year ago, John was mentally preparing himself for Christmas dinner at the Holmes’, after having decided to take Mary back – she was the mother of his child after all, he felt it was his duty to at least try. All the while steadfastly ignoring the sour feeling in his gut, and the terror he felt seeing his best friend once again bleeding on the ground before him. John will never be able to fully articulate how _relieved_ he felt when this time he succeeded in feeling Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingertips _(‘please, please, please, not again, please’ his heart begged_ ). That relief had soon been replaced by instinct, and anger, when he loudly asked - _demanded_ of the still prone Magnussen on the floor _“Who shot him?!”_

Even when John agreed to take Mary back, he would be lying if he were to say he was sure of the decision. He had to though, John told himself. Of course, once again Sherlock Holmes upended his world. Magnussen was killed. Moriarty returned. And yet again, Mary was proven to be not who she said she was; Sabrina Moran, long time right hand to Moriarty.

John didn’t even bother being surprised at that point.

However, finding out the baby wasn’t his turned out to be one blow too many. After that John spent a long evening with a bottle of scotch, under the uncharacteristically worried eye of Sherlock Holmes.

It was barely into the New Year, after that fateful Christmas, before the east wind bearing the name _Sherlock Holmes_ , toppled the criminal mastermind after all; taking Sabrina Moran right along with him.

John moved back into 221b permanently. And the bottle of scotch got a lot emptier.

It didn’t escape John’s notice that whenever he bought more of the alcohol it would disappear shortly after; before he could even drink it.

The ensuing confrontation with Sherlock ended with a vague explanation of an experiment involving the density of shoe leather after being soaked in whiskey for twelve hours. John had been angry. Even more so when Sherlock eventually contacted a now post-rehab Harriette (to this day John has no idea what exactly Sherlock even said to her) and practically fled the flat (something about Molly, Bart’s lab and septicemia blood samples) when she showed up to “talk” to John.

It was difficult, and very little was actually resolved between the two of them, but after the long conversation he had with his older sister, John stopped buying alcohol. Being forcefully reminded of how the vice has nearly destroyed the lives of more than one member of his family was a good, cold dose of reality. One John admits that he needed, even if a part of him at the time didn’t want it.

When Sherlock arrived home later that same day, John apologized for getting so angry before. John is still mystified even now by how Sherlock responded; with a long look, Sherlock seemed as though he was about to speak but then changed his mind, instead nodding once and then going into the kitchen, where he proceeded to make tea for them both.

That was just one small example of how things were…different between them since everything to do with Mary/Moran and Moriarty was over.

 Sherlock seemed more cautious and wary around John than he had been. Less confrontational – alcohol incident aside - which made John feel more on edge and confused. It got better as time passed, but even now John still feels something… _off_ in their interactions. Of course it figures after everything that, as much as John may have liked it to be, things couldn’t go back to the way they were before Mary – _Sabrina,_ before Moriarty even.

It is as though John doesn’t know how to approach Sherlock anymore, and the same appears to be true of Sherlock.

John knows there are things he should probably say to the man, things his therapist would say are _needed_ to be said in order for them to move passed this…tension, but while John may be good at physical or anger fueled confrontation, conversations about emotions is something he finds very difficult, which is almost funny because in that way Sherlock and he are similar, albeit for different reasons. John; because exposing himself to vulnerability goes against so many instincts honed into him by the army and life in general, and Sherlock…well, Sherlock because John suspects the infuriating bastard either doesn’t know how to or just can’t.

Suffice to say, things are not “status quo” at 221b, even with the obvious attempted intervention of Mrs. Hudson _“Oh boys, I know it’s difficult but you two need to sit down and have a nice long chat, before I am tempted to lock you in here and throw away the key!”_ John is positive she would have made good on her threat by now if she hadn’t known it would’ve been a useless endeavour against someone with the acrobatic and lock picking skills of Sherlock Holmes.

Even Greg and Mycroft have had a thing or two to say.

If his mother were still alive, John is sure she would’ve clonked their heads together and said something like _‘get your heads out of your arses already!’_ She always was a colourful woman.

And maybe John would’ve said something by now if the person he needed to have the talk with _wasn’t_ Sherlock Holmes of all people, and if John could actually pinpoint what the problem is…or maybe he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it, and hope this odd tension goes away altogether, and then they will finally be able to move on. John just wants to move _on._

He is getting very good at ignoring the little voice inside his mind _insisting ‘you know what the problem is John, tell him, be honest…’_

_What the hell do you know?_

 

John’s inner thoughts are halted by a cold gust of wind slapping him in the face. The long coat of his best friend, walking silently beside him billows around his ankles.

John gives his wandering mind a good scolding, rolling his eyes in the process _(see? This is why you can’t move on; you need to stop thinking about it all the time!)._ Before brushing away the past once more and focusing on the now, and how he ended up walking down some random street in Milan on Christmas Eve, in the bloody, buggering cold with Sherlock Holmes, after following the maniac when he ran out of the ‘Teatro alla Scala’, during intermission, before the final act of the fourth and last Opera, in an exhausting four day arc of _Der Ring des Nibelungen. (_ A series of four Operas more commonly known as The Ring Cycle, as John was told by the Holmes brothers).

Life with Sherlock Holmes is certainly never boring.

When Mycroft first came to them with this random request, John was sure there would be more to it. However, so far it has turned out to be exactly what Mycroft said it would. Which has John feeling even more confused to say the least. Sherlock Holmes actually agreed to a request, put forth by his brother of all people, to escort the grandmother (Mrs. Amelia Blackhart) of an important dignatary to Milan over Christmas to see a special one time performance of _Der Ring des Nibelungen_ (a strong desire of hers apparently).

Before John could ask why Sherlock, Mycroft had explicitly stated that it wouldn’t be _just_ Sherlock, John must follow as well. Apparently Mrs. Blackhart, a fiercely independent woman, is also a major admirer of the two men and their exploits, even threw a celebratory party when Sherlock returned “from the dead“ (John couldn’t contain the burst of laughter at Sherlock’s expression in response to that revelation). Meaning, that she believed Reginald Blackhart (a man with influence strong enough that even a man like Mycroft Holmes must keep him pleased) her nephew, was simply being over protective in wanting to send a bodyguard with her when she left the country.

According to Mycroft she only agreed to being escorted when her nephew cautiously floated the idea of getting Sherlock Holmes to accompany her.

 

 _(“-and Dr Watson! Him too, oh those poor devils shouldn’t be parted after all that stress his horrible wife and that awful man! Morlarty? Moriarty it was yes! Those two need each other they do…”_ was her response to that, also according to Mycroft, to which John squirmed a little uncomfortably in his chair and Sherlock merely blinked a bit slower.)

 

The exact details of what happened with his now imprisoned ex-wife were never known to the press, but even Mycroft and Sherlock couldn’t dissuade _all_ from printing at least some of the story when it was discovered. At the time John couldn’t say he was relishing the idea of possibly being in the company of an overzealous fan over Christmas, but the option was either that or to spend it with his sister, he chose the overzealous Mrs. Blackhart – who turned out to be quite an amusing old lady that reminded him of his mother .

And so, rather inexplicably, Sherlock acquiesced after a staring contest between him and his brother. A sight John is used to seeing at this point, he even managed to make himself a cuppa while he waited.

Sherlock still hasn’t told John precisely _why_ he agreed to this in the first place, even with the uncomfortable tension in their relationship John could think of worst things than spending Christmas in Milan, but for Sherlock to agree to such a venture – with _no case_ in sight – until now, it had been next to unheard of.

John half expected the man to toss his brother a scathing remark before storming off in all his dressing gown, petulant glory. However, no scathing remark was uttered, he agreed and Mycroft said he would have Anthea drop by later that day with their tickets and itinerary… _then_ Sherlock walked off to his bedroom without another word, suspiciously not glancing at John even once. He didn’t come out for hours after.

Mycroft didn’t seem surprised at all, unlike John. He left with a single parting remark, with an almost sad shake of his head, uttered so quietly he might not have meant to say it out loud at all _“Predictable”_.

John spent the following thirty minutes going over what just transpired. As always, when it came to the Holmes’, John felt like he was missing something.

He is still no closer to figuring out what it is.

Now, John is mostly cursing himself for not having anticipated something out of the ordinary happening, everything has so far gone _so_ spectacular ordinary in their trip; unanswered questions and slightly awkward silences aside, most often when Sherlock and John were ever in their hotel room alone. Mrs. Blackhart had been situated across the hall and would often ingratiate herself with them. Frankly John is surprised Sherlock hasn’t told her in his own special way to “shut up”, he hasn’t reined himself in completely however, and did manage to deduce everything about her from her peanut allergy to her secret affair with young woman thirty years her junior after having spent hours on a plane with her, John wasn’t surprised when she gave Sherlock nothing but an excited look and insisted he deduce her _again_ , and once again John laughed at Sherlock’s hilarious expression.

Still, John has found himself distracted and increasingly on edge, expecting something to go wrong or some tragedy to befall them.

When Sherlock practically raced out of the Opera House nearly fifteen minutes ago without a word, to the surprise of both John and Amelia, with an apology to Mrs. Blackhart John followed him and muttered to himself _“this is it”._

He didn’t expect to simply be strolling in what would be considered a romantic setting by many (John resisted the urge to kick himself for that remark, the words romantic and Sherlock Holmes hardly going together, he steadfastly ignored the memory of his best friends best man speech with a strength his former army commander would be proud of) minutes later with no apparent direction in mind. Sherlock hasn’t said anything beyond his initial response when John asked him:

 

_“What was that?”_

_“There was no way I was going to sit through the entire Ring Cycle just to please Mycroft.”_

Any further inquiries on John’s part were met with silence. And so, here he is, on a nearly empty street, in a city John has never visited before in his life, on Christmas Eve taking a walk with Sherlock Holmes.

 

 _Fantastic._  

 

To say John is frustrated would be an understatement; though the cold and his underdressed state likely have something major to do with that. He could go back to the hotel, but for many reasons (some of which he doesn’t want to delve into further even in the privacy of his head) John is reluctant to leave Sherlock’s side, despite whatever the hell is going on with them lately. Also because John did notice that Sherlock has been especially…pensive today. He left their shared room at one point, to come back looking a bit tense.

Their shared room happened because Mrs. Blackhart herself procured their arrangements, and assuming they would want to share a room, she booked a comfortable suite with a single, king sized bed. John naturally asked why she would assume that, to which she replied _“Why not? You two seem like the cuddling sort to me”._ John’s jaw had flapped indignantly in response while she stalked off with surprising pep into her own set of rooms. Sherlock didn’t respond to her remark or give any indication that he even heard it. He then left a somewhat annoyed John in the hallway when he entered their suite ahead of him.

John didn’t even bother with the _‘not gay’_ that time, there was just no point anymore, mostly because no one even believed him so why waste his breath? That’s what he told himself anyway.

This…normal, incident free “holiday”, just…isn’t _normal_ for them. John is half-expecting a gun to go off any second.

Mostly John wishes he had worn something other than his only pair of ten year old dress gloves. Going somewhere as fancy as an Opera is not something he has done before. He might do again though – not just because he enjoyed it, which he has to admit he did to a small degree, even though Opera music is not to his taste, but mostly for the reason that John has only ever seen Sherlock so _enraptured,_ was when he was on the scent of a really good case. So when Sherlock acted deeply annoyed by having to sit through the long series of Operas John was confused because even though Sherlock has proven to be adept at acting, there are times when John has been able to deduce himself the difference between Sherlock lying and Sherlock telling the truth. John is almost sure Sherlock was telling the truth. Why then did he look so…thoughtful through every act they’ve watched so far?

Just then Sherlock’s steps speed up. John huffs a breath, it echoes in the cold air very much mimicking smoke, and matches his pace. With a grunt John pulls off his useless dress gloves and rubs his hands together in order to keep them warm.

 

“Are we actually going somewhere? Or did you _really_ fancy a stroll?” John asks, rhetorical and mostly to alter the silence as cold as the air itself.

 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock actually responds; deep voice perfectly matching the dark sky and deep, cold to the bone air around them.

 

“Here.” Sherlock stops walking at an intersection of shops, a cab passes by. John automatically does as well, looking around for something or something that must have caught Sherlock’s attention…nothing leaps to mind and Sherlock stays completely still. John frowns.

 

“Wha-” Turning to ask Sherlock why they’ve stopped. John abruptly halts his question when he notices Sherlock’s bare hands, the right reaching out to John with his own gloves held out in offering. John’s brow lifts in surprise. “What about you?” John’s eyes flick from the gloves to Sherlock’s face then back to his hand, already tinged red from the temperature.

 

To John’s further surprise, Sherlock quirks a familiar smirk.

 

“Didn’t you know? We heartless men are impervious to cold.” His tone is familiar in a way John hasn’t heard for a while, for a brief moment it makes John sad.

 

He doesn’t let on though, though he knows Sherlock must read it in his face if the slight hesitation on Sherlock’s own is anything to go by.

John shakes off his surprise with shiver.

 

“I thought that was Vampires. Is there something you want to tell me?”

 

He is still reluctant to take the gloves, for all his inner grumbling John has dealt with extreme temperatures before and he would rather not sacrifice his friend’s hands for his own.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and grasps Johns hands tightly in his own, taking advantage of John’s momentary shock to slip the gloves onto Johns hands; the warmth left behind by Sherlock’s elegant fingers nearly makes John groan in relief.

 

“I thought danger was something that appealed to you.” Sherlock quips, smirk still present, and crosses the street; hands now in his pockets.

 

John once again shakes off his surprise and jogs after Sherlock, matching his stride easily.  He is warm from Sherlock’s gloves, the memory of Sherlock handling John’s own hands while he slipped on his gloves (with a surprising amount of care) lingers on John’s mind, adding its own brand of warmth. John doesn’t know how he should feel about that.

 

“The psychotic crime addicted flatmate is danger enough for me; I would rather not be a potential food source for your Vampiric self on top of that thanks.” John says nonchalantly.

 

Sherlock chuckles. John finds himself aching after hearing that sound, it feels like years since he’s heard it.

 

A few more moments pass in silence, the tension a bit eased by their earlier interaction however brief. John is actually beginning to enjoy himself to a degree. He moves his hands a little in the _slightly_ too large gloves, a thoughtful expression on his face. Sherlock can be the most inconsiderate, unfriendly man John has ever met in his life…there is a paradox to the genius though, if the last year has shown John anything it is that Sherlock can be as callous and unfeeling as he can show a surprising amount of devotion and willingness to do all he can for those few he genuinely cares about.

John for the life of him does not understand why he feels the need to voice what he says next. “You know, heartless men don’t offer their gloves to their friends. So…ta.” It is true. For some reason, whatever John just said causes the air between them to freeze once more; with Sherlock right beside him John felt it when he tensed.

 

_Fuck._

John looks up at the face of his friend. Sherlock must really be distracted by something within his own mind; otherwise John is sure he wouldn’t allow the almost _pained_ expression that is now evident in the lines of his eyes and the frown in his mouth to show.

Sherlock stops walking, his hands curled into fists within his pockets, face blank and staring at the sidewalk in front of them.

John stops abruptly and without thinking he reaches out to his friends shoulder with concern in his touch. John doesn’t understand if it is something he said that has caused Sherlock’s change in mood or if something else has happened.

At John’s hand on his shoulder Sherlock whips around to face him, John quickly drops his hand – nearly as surprised as Sherlock seems by his action.

Sherlock is giving John an odd look he can’t decipher, he looks almost… _nervous?_ _Scared?_

John shifts uncomfortably. The last time John saw Sherlock look like this was when Magnussen had just revealed his vaults were actually his mind palace…evil bastard.

 

“Sherlock…?” John tentatively starts. His posture stiffens and he feels genuinely worried now.

 

John thinks he sees one of Sherlock’s hands twitch, and his mouth open as though to speak.

 

“John, I am not…” He pauses, and then his gaze flickers to the ground.

 

John is about to repeat himself when he notices Sherlock’s eyes abruptly widen, his head lifts to look somewhere over Johns left shoulder, expression utterly changed from barely a moment before; determined, fierce, _shocked._

John is about to turn around to see what the hell has caught Sherlock’s attention when the man grabs John’s hand.

 

“Run!” He yells. And so Sherlock does just that, speeding away and taking John right along with him.

 

John has no time to even think _‘what the hell’_ before -

 

_BANG!_

 

A bullet nearly grazes John’s right shoulder.

 

_Shit._

 

If this were any other time, John might be congratulating himself for having his instincts proven right; a simple stroll could _never_ be simple where Sherlock is involved, the two of them are proven magnets for the criminally insane; a fact John has made peace with for the most part.

Soldier’s instinct and trust in the man running alongside him take over and John doesn’t even hesitate when grasping Sherlock’s hand in return; running with all the speed he can muster, eyes darting around for cover and wishing for some sort of bloody miracle that would make his gun appear in his hand.

 

_BANG!_

 

Another shot is fired and misses Sherlock by a scant inch.

John’s heart beat rackets up significantly more.

Whoever they are they’re not far behind them, shooting while running is not easy but they’ve gotten way too close for Johns comfort.

Were they being followed? Does this have something to do with why Sherlock left the Opera House early?

John curses, whoever this is has certainly picked a good time to shoot, so far no alley ways or suitable cover has presented itself.

 

_For fucks sake we’re not even in bloody London and we’re being chased!_

 

John can hear all three of their running footsteps, and the heavy breathing of Sherlock right next to him. John has experienced situations such as this too often to _actually_ panic, but not being able to find cover and not even having the comfort of his gun is making him more anxious than usual, and severely tempted to look behind him to see if can recognize whoever is intent on killing or at least injuring them.

John has no idea where they’re going; Sherlock clearly does so maybe he has been here before. John wouldn’t be surprised.

Whatever area of the city they’re in is pretty much abandoned; a narrow street filled with commercial shops obviously shut down for the holiday, the only sounds being John’s heart pounding in his ears along with the rhythm of his running feet against the stone walk perfectly in sync with Sherlock’s; Johns hand still tightly clasped with Sherlock’s bare one.

Running. Pounding. Breathing. _BANG! BANG!_

Both John and Sherlock automatically tighten their hold on the other.

 

_Shit shit shit!_

 

Just ahead, John spots a sharp turn off. _Finally!_

Their pursuer is clearly in very good shape; their shots are even more wide however, running steps uneven, probably getting more desperate.

Sherlock and John narrowly avoid a large patch of ice as they swing around the corner.

If possible, it is even darker here, the buildings even more closed in.

Their gunman has yet to turn the corner.

John looks desperately around for an advantage. In the distance John thinks he can hear the sound of traffic.

And then, John spots an alley way entrance. Clearly Sherlock does too because in almost the same second John spotted it Sherlock pulls John into it. Cold darkness cloys in around them, accentuating the sound of their breathing and desperate running. Almost immediately Sherlock pulls John again behind a large dumpster bin, this time John _does_ slip on a patch of ice.

He curses, sure he’s about to fall. _Bloody perfect._

Sherlock twists his own body however and they both collapse in a heap – barely stifling pained grunts - Sherlock first, conveniently covered by the looming shadow of the large bin.

Sherlock is prone on the ground, John lying vertically on top of his body; silent, tense, trying to calm their breathing. The position has caused John to instinctively arch himself in a protective position over Sherlock (steadfastly ignoring the suggestiveness of the positions and the pain in his knee from where it slammed against the icy ground). Being the one in the easiest position to do so, John peers around the bin.

Running footsteps echo nearby, and then abruptly stop not far from the alley entrance.

 John quickly glances down at Sherlock.

Those crystalline eyes might as well be glowing, but there is no immediate sign of injury that John can detect. Their faces are barely an inch a part, John gulps and nods his head in query. _Are you alright?_

 

Sherlock quirks a brow. _Obviously._

 

John rolls his eyes at the look. _Git._

 

The darkness makes seeing anything near pointless, but John can just see the amused smirk on Sherlock’s face. John momentarily feels a pang.

This, right here, the chase, adrenaline, blood _pumping_ through their veins as Sherlock once put it, is – in a bizarre way – their safe zone. Any tension that existed before is gone when they’re dealing with what they know best; the calm eye at the centre of their storm.

 

 _Now is not the bloody time_. John thinks to himself.

 

He clenches his eyes shut for a moment and listens carefully for any sign that their pursuer is still nearby.

A squeeze to his arm has him abruptly looking at Sherlock again. The man is looking at him curiously, his eyes flicker towards John’s knee.

_Oh…right._

 

John shrugs with a forced smile, attempting to convey that he’s fine – surprised by Sherlock’s concern, though he’s not entirely sure why. Sherlock narrows his eyes momentarily but seems to accept Johns answer for now. Not much point in arguing in their present position after all.

Neither wants to risk moving and potentially alert the gunman to their current position, so the two men - lying atop the other as battlefield lovers might – listen, and wait.

 

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Step. Step. Step._

 

John takes a deep breath, below him Sherlock does the same; expression utterly focused on some distant point. John can feel the taller man’s left arm move towards something in his coat.

 

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Step. Step. Step._

 

They’re pacing. _Why? Who the hell are they?_

If whoever this is decides to enter the alley, John will be prepared to deal with them; armed or no. If they’re distracted, John may be able to take them unawares and disarm them.

Just when he is pondering that possibility Sherlock squeezes his arm again. John looks down at Sherlock to find him shaking his head – _bloody mind reader_ – and mouthing something. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but it looks like he’s saying… _no need?_

John adopts a confused expression when he registers what Sherlock is saying, he shakes his head.

_Why?_ John mouths.

_Trust me,_ Sherlock’s lips utter silently.

 

John narrows his eyes briefly before forcing himself to take a deep breath to tamp down his frustration, fighting every instinct in his body to do… _something_ , something about the person still pacing nearby, and something about the fact that he is _still_ lying prostrate on top of Sherlock Holmes in the cold while the man below him is very obviously… _warm_ , John has to physically stop himself from lowering himself further when he feels the cold wind nipping at his exposed neck.

John highly doubts Sherlock would take too kindly being used as a heating pad, and to be honest, John doesn’t want to consider the possibility that he might not mind at all.

After once more peering out as far as he dare, and spotting their pursuer – illuminated by a distant street light - now paused at the end of the alley way…not much taller than him and obviously a man, he has his head resting in his hands with the gun dangling somewhat precariously from them. John also thinks he can hear faint muttering but it is too quiet for him to figure out. Not that he wants to give the man ideas, but if he were him he would’ve at _least_ come down the alleyway to check by now…John doubts he would’ve needed army training and years of living with Sherlock Holmes to tell that this man is obviously on edge, shaking, pacing frantically, amazing he was able to fire the gun in their direction at all…

John frowns and looks to Sherlock again. The Detective very obviously has his head tilted towards the gunman’s position, aside from his left hand still in his pocket and his right resting casually against Johns arm, he hasn’t moved at all…definitely waiting for something? _What?_

With John’s past experiences with Sherlock and being left in the dark, he is understandably irritated, but present circumstances prevent him from demanding answers and in spite of it all, John _does_ trust the man (despite conventional wisdom) he is currently using as a cushion between him and the cold, hard ground.

In a movement that John will likely chastise himself for momentarily, John shrugs Sherlock’s hand – now _seriously_ reddened from the cold – off his arm, Sherlock’s eyes crease together the second John does that, and then firmly presses the long fingered hand of the detective between their bodies.

Sherlock is now eyeing John with faint surprise; John meets his eyes for a moment…a long, _long_ moment. Too long. The odd thought occurs to John that no one’s eyes should be that bright in this kind of darkness. His traitorous heart begins a staccato beat.

John inwardly curses himself and firmly squeezes his eyes shut. _Oh hell, not this, not…_ A conversation between him and Mrs. Hudson a few weeks ago flashes in John’s mind.

 

_John is just arriving home after a trip to the shoppes, arms full of bags, his hair wet from the spittle of London rain. Before he can even start the struggle of opening the door bearing the number ‘221b’, Mrs. Hudson opens it for him, John smiles at the woman gratefully. She smiles back._

_“Ta Mrs. Hudson.” John nods and squeezes inside. Almost immediately John can hear the faint stirrings of delicate violin music from upstairs. Despite the somewhat awkward air of 221b these days, the place is still home to him and the sound of violin music is now a comfort rather than a sad reminder like it was during the years Sherlock was gone._

_John is just about to pass the older woman while making his way towards the stairs, when he feels her touch at his elbow. John stops and turns to look at her, taking immediate note of the concern on her face._

_Instantly alert, John puts the bags down and places his hands on her shoulders._

_“What’s wrong?” He asks._

_Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. It just feels so…wrong to see the normally cheery old woman looking so forlorn._

_“John dear, I hope you know you and Sherlock are family to me-” John nods in agreement, and wonders where she could be going with this. “- I was never blessed with children of my own, he has made many mistakes and broke both our hearts, but Sherlock is my boy in every way that matters.” Mrs. Hudson suddenly fixes fierce eyes on John. “And so are you.”_

_John is not one to cry, but he can’t help but be moved by her declaration. He’s not surprised necessarily; her actions – and patience - have proven how much she cares for them. With the way she treats Sherlock, it is obvious how she feels, that she would include John in that category…John simply smiles and waits for her to continue._

_“I know I tease, but you can hardly blame me with the way you two always carry on, even Mrs. Turner says -” John, with his hands still on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, feels rapidly uncomfortable with the direction she’s headed in. He misses a few of her words but he definitely catches the last sentence. “I want you to tell me something, and be honest young man.”_

_“I’ll try.” John’s mouth twitches into an awkward smile._

_Mrs. Hudson just sighs and shakes her head, her eyes no less fierce than they were before. John’s hands slide off her shoulders when she lifts her own arms to place her hands on John’s shoulders. It reminds him of his grandmother when she would scold him for climbing the tree in her back yard for much of his pre-adolescence - which he would always fall from._

_John has lived through war, both at home and abroad, the literal kind and the kind concurrent with being the friend, blogger and flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. He’s been shot, kidnapped, had bloody explosives strapped to his chest, been at the barrel end of a gun more times than he can count, and still nothing is more terrifying than Mrs. Hudson on a mission, especially where he and Sherlock are concerned._

_“My dear John, I know the last years have been difficult for you, that whole business with Mary, Sherlock too-” John’s jaw automatically clenches with the memory of his now ex-wife.  “- he loves you, not simply as friends so don’t even pretend otherwise.”_

_John freezes. “Er…what?” John says, sure he’s missed something._

_Mrs. Hudson gives him a non-aggressive tap on the cheek._

_“Sherlock of course! I may be an old woman, but I’ve known that boy for years, he may like to pretend otherwise but I can read him like an open book.”_

_John laughs awkwardly, and gives her a vague smile. Her eyes immediately narrow._

_“Mrs. Hudson, I know you’d like to believe otherwise but Sherlock and I **are** just friends.” John has no doubt that this is true, but the continuing tension that has lasted for months now has him doubting where he stands with the man…wherever that may be, it isn’t where Mrs. Hudson is saying, it can’t be. _

_To John’s surprise, Mrs. Hudson sighs and nods._

_“I know, I know-” She pats John’s cheek, humouring him, and then backs away. “You can’t fool me John dear. Remember that.” She says firmly with the point of her finger and makes her way back into her own flat; 221A._

_The gentle click of her door startles John out of his frozen position._

_“What the hell…” John’s heart is pounding faster than he’d like. He ignores this and shrugs off the bizarre conversation with Mrs. Hudson with a laugh and a smile._

_Because she can’t be right, aside from interest in Irene Adler Sherlock hasn’t shown any romantic or sexual interest in anyone or anything in the entire time he’s known the man. And John certainly has never thought of him in a way besides friendship, he just… **he can’t.**_

_John Watson picks up the abandoned bags of food and makes his own way up to home. He tells himself when he thinks of home he thinks of the flat, not the man currently playing the violin with masterful skill._

_He almost believes it._

 

 

The memory is there and gone as quickly as it arrived. John twitches uncomfortably. To distract his mind from it, and from what just happened with John sandwiching Sherlock’s hand _between_ their chests, he quickly goes over the medical consequences of frostbite in his head. It is dull enough to push back the emotional eddy brought on by that particular memory.

 

_Focus John, focus._

 

Just then, it sounds like the gunman is finally beginning to walk away, footsteps becoming distant and harder to hear.

At the same moment John feels a faint vibration at his side, and Sherlock suddenly has both hands on John shoulders and makes a move to push him off.

John takes the cue and jumps off, carefully avoiding the ice and ignoring the crick in his middle age bones caused by the uncomfortable position.

He helps Sherlock to stand and then gives him a pointed look.

 

“What the _hell_ is going on Sherlock?” John whispers.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not now, come on John.” Sherlock gestures towards the alley entrance. “He’s still here.”

 

John clenches his jaw but follows without a word. Sherlock reaches the entrance right when John does. The Detective is about to lean out when John stops him.

 

“ _You_ stay right there.” John’s tone brooks no argument. He may have absolute faith in Sherlock’s skill, but he also has absolute faith in Sherlock’s ability to get shot at the most inopportune times.

 

Johns protective instinct have him wanting to make the first move, it is possible that the man knew where Sherlock and John were all along and is now waiting for them to exit. Sherlock looks like he’s about to argue, but before the man can protest John pushes him aside. He then tenses, prepared, and peers carefully around the corner.

 

_BANG!_

 

“Shit!” John narrowly avoids the speeding bullet with a pounding heart and plasters himself back against the wall of the alley. “Fifty feet north of us, in a store archway.”

 

“I suspected as much.” Sherlock, against the wall beside him, utters.

 

John snorts.

 

“Of course you did, how so? The amount of steps you could hear while he walked away? What?”

 

Sherlock quirks a brow. “I believe it was the trajectory of the bullet that narrowly managed to avoid your head.”

 

John whips around to face him. It doesn’t take long before they burst into desperately restrained laughter; very inappropriate timing, but definitely characteristic of this duo.

 

“You _arse_.” John huffs out when he finally manages to stop himself from laughing now, of _all_ times.

 

Beside him Sherlock is echoing faint undercurrents of amusement, his face alight with a smile; curly hair askew from the movements of the past several minutes.

 

“It has been said.”

 

John shakes his head in amusement and takes a deep breath.

 

“So, what do we do now?” John asks.

 

Sherlock hums.

 

“Wait approximately four seconds.”

 

John raises a brow. “Why four-”

 

Sherlock raises a hand to silence him, pushes away from the alley wall in preparation for…whatever it is he’s waiting for. In the dark or no, both literally and metaphorically, John does the same and really hopes Sherlock isn’t about to do something stupid.

 

_BANG BANG!_

 

All John registers before Sherlock leaps out of hiding is that those shots came from a different gun slightly further away.

 

_Oh for god’s sake…_

 

“Sherlock!” John shouts. Wind bites at his face while he frantically runs after the curly-haired maniac.

 

The suddenness of Sherlock and John’s appearance – along with this new gun equipped person randomly appearing into the equation - seems to have startled the gunman momentarily, just long enough for the second one to nick him in the shoulder. The man howls in pain but surprisingly doesn’t drop the gun, upon seeing the three people running towards him he speeds away in a panic. He awkwardly holds out his uninjured arm and points his gun behind him, randomly firing off shots towards all three.

 

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

 

It is pure luck that they haven’t gotten shot yet, or perhaps it isn’t luck, this guy doesn’t seem all that skilled really.

As this new individual fires off another shot towards their original pursuer (which misses, unfortunately) John really hopes they actually are on their side. With that hope in mind, for now John focuses his attention entirely on the increasingly unstable man practically firing blind in their direction, and Sherlock ahead of him far too close to the gunman for John’s comfort.

John _really_ wishes he had his own weapon right about now.

 

It all happens in a matter of seconds.

 

The gunman staggers briefly on a patch of slick ice, which causes his arm to flail wildly in Sherlock’s direction while a shot is going off. Sherlock ducks in time, but for those few seconds John’s heart twists painfully in his chest.

 

_Not again, not again, not again_

 

John hears the new individual yell – a woman judging by the voice – while firing off another shot, which takes advantage of the brief stumbling of the original shooter by guaranteeing a hit to the man’s leg.

Just as the man howls in unintelligible Italian, Sherlock being the closest reaches him first and crashes bodily into him. The sound of their struggling bodies hitting the pavement is nearly as loud as gunshots in the otherwise empty street.

 

“Fuck.” John is only a few paces behind. Out of the corner of his eye and slightly to the front he faintly sees long hair whipping around in the snow now softly falling from the sky.

 

Sherlock is attempting to dislodge the gun from the growling, kicking man trying to knee Sherlock in the gut, but rather than collapse from the obvious pain he must be in – the adrenaline caused by it is clearly fueling this man with unexpected strength.

Sherlock manages to get the man pinned below him. John skids to a halt in front of the two, immediately going for the two arms struggling for control of the gun. With a long since mastered move John grabs the gunman’s arm and twists it sharply while Sherlock tries to help John by holding the struggling man down with his full body weight.

Though the man cries out in further pain, Johns sees a thumb quickly press on the trigger a second too late before the man is forced to drop the gun.

 

_BANG!_

 

At the same moment John feels a sharp, white hot pain sting his leg and collapses backwards, he hears a scream.

 

“JOHN!” …Sherlock.

 

John has a brief flashback to when he was trapped beneath a roaring bonfire, hearing his friend call out to him in a similar manner.

John bites his lip hard, desperately trying to hold back the screaming curses that want to bubble out – _fuck, fuck, buggering shit, being shot is not something I’ll ever get used to_ \- his hands automatically go to the wound he can barely reach lying down.

Blood loss and shock are whiting out his vision in spots. It isn’t difficult however to discern Sherlock’s frantic voice. John then notices him hovering over John very closely; his bare hands look like they’re shaking as he anxiously examines John’s body.

The wound is painful, but even in his current position John can tell it is little more than a nasty graze. He’s not going to die from it at least.

 

“I’m alright Sherlock, I’m fine.” John insists through gritted teeth. “Here’s a pair of dress trousers I won’t be wearing again.”

 

Sherlock looks at him as he’s done many times in the past, when according to him John had been _particularly_ idiotic. John almost smiles at the familiar look but Sherlock is apparently not in the mood as he resolutely ignores John and inspects the wound on John’s leg; he feels trembling fingers brush alongside his own beside the bloody area.

John can recall the amount of times he has seen Sherlock this panicked, this upset, on _one_ hand. In a flash of revelation he realizes that they all revolved around _him_ , John Watson being danger.

John smiles lazily, head lolling off to one side and watching Sherlock as the man moves aside the torn flaps of Johns trousers in order to better assess the injury; eyes brilliantly focused.

 

“You’re pretty.” John finds himself mumbling, internally slapping himself a moment later.

 

It’s possible he might be going into shock.

 

Sherlock either doesn’t hear him, and the red flush on his cheeks is most likely from the freezing air, or ignores him because a second later Sherlock appears to slump in relief.

 

“You’re alright, yes, you’re fine. The injury is minor, missed the femoral artery, not, not fatal.” Sherlock’s normally composed tone of voice cracks on the last word. He takes a deep, shaky breath before leaning back up into Johns view; keeping one hand – with Sherlock’s sleeve pulled up – covering Johns exposed wound.

 

John is trying to stay conscious, but minor or not being it hurts like hell. Though it is a consideration up to a point that it isn’t quite as bad as when he got shot through his shoulder.

John’s somewhat hazy gaze follows Sherlock as he leans in close to John’s face; those vivid eyes stare at him unblinkingly, alight with unshed tears… _No, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry, you’re hallucinating._

For a few seconds all Sherlock does is stare and John finds he is staring back.

 

The thought that they are in the perfect position to kiss floats across John’s blood loss addled mind.

 

Then, Sherlock moves. For a brief second he thinks the man _is_ going to kiss him, John has barely any time to register how precisely _not_ panicked the possibility makes him feel and why before he is proven wrong in that assumption. Sherlock rests his forehead briefly against Johns, causing their noses to touch temporarily; Sherlock’s hot breath ghosts across his face.

Somehow the gesture is even more tender than a kiss could ever be, and far more than John ever expected to see from Sherlock Holmes. At the moment he can’t tell if his heart is pounding because of the lingering adrenaline or because of Sherlock’s atypical closeness.

The bubble of the moment is abruptly broken when Sherlock lifts his head away, all trace of tender concern gone from his eyes to be replaced by dark, angry fire. The sight causes John to frown.

Sherlock stands up and strides to somewhere below John’s feet and out of sight.

 

At the same moment John notices a woman rush over from that same direction and collapse next to John’s leg. She immediately goes for the wound with practiced efficiency, ignoring John himself for the moment.

Sherlock obviously doesn’t appear concerned about her presence and right now John is too close to losing consciousness to much care either way.

 

“I must say I am _thrilled_ to finally be meeting the Dr. Watson I’ve heard so much about, bloody leg wounds and gun toting wackos aside-” The woman, John can’t make out her face but judging by her voice (American?) she sounds much younger than either he or Sherlock and far too cheery despite the present situation. John snorts to himself, it’s not like he and Sherlock have ever been much better. “-you’re lucky, no bullet and with the supplies I have I’ll be able to handle this no problem.”

He’s barely listening to her, and John is beginning to feel more of the actual pain as the shock wears off, the edges of his vision become foggier. The woman pulls something out of her coat and not long after John grits his teeth as he feels a sharp sting. Some sort of disinfect is being poured liberally onto his blood soaked leg.

He hears a feminine sigh. “That’ll have to do until we get to the clinic – _Sherlock!_ Get over here! That asshole isn’t going anywhere and I need your help to carry John before the police get here.” The woman puts pressure on the wound after letting it bleed out for a moment and turns her attention back to John. “Proper introductions will have to wait Doctor, just relax; you’ll be fine if I and this fool have anything to say about it.” John thinks he sees her smile and gesture with her free hand in Sherlock’s direction.

 

John doesn’t have enough energy to respond. The last thing he _hears_ before finally succumbing to the shock, blood loss and adrenaline crash is Sherlock; in a tone John is sure would frighten the pants off of any sane individual.

 

“Count your blessings, if you had killed John Watson, you would not be leaving here alive.”

 

The last thing he _sees_ is Sherlock rushing back to his side.


	2. Chapter 2

 

When John wakes it is to a very different environment. He feels warm for one, and he is definitely _not_ in the suit he had been wearing. There is something soft covering him; a blanket. As John slowly blinks awake, he feels his leg throb, but the pain isn’t as bad as before.

Vague memories cloud John’s head of a woman’s voice, Sherlock, and the gunman.

 

_Christ Sherlock, just like you to run out into the middle of a gunfight…but hey, who am I to talk?_

 

John groans less from the pain and more from the fact that’s he’s somehow managed to get himself shot _again_. Though considering the life Sherlock and he lead, it is a miracle he hasn’t been shot before this.

John’s vision is rapidly clearing, so he looks around to gauge where he is. The first thing he notices is that he’s on a sofa, in a study of some sort; if the desk and filing cabinets are anything to go by. The biggest detail he notices is several frames directly across from him above the mahogany desk; even from this distance John can tell they’re university diplomas, several of them medical.

 

He frowns. _‘Where the hell am I?’_

 

“Where’s Sherlock?’ John mumbles out loud, a bit groggy as he tries to push himself up from the sofa.

 

It is as John manages to push himself up to sitting that he hears two sets of rapid footsteps, and a familiar deep voice arguing with a higher one on the other side of the door, which is near the foot of the sofa.

John throws the blanket off, and briefly registers that he is wearing a blue T-shirt and grey lounge trousers.

 

_Oh I hope Sherlock didn’t dress me._

 

John pulls up his left trouser leg to take a look at his new bullet wound. It is neatly covered with a sterilized bandage. Careful not to contaminate the area, John carefully lifts a loose corner to peer underneath. There are stitches, their application neat and tight, obviously done by a professional.

John carefully pulls the trouser leg back down and decides to test himself with trying to stand. The moment he puts weight on his left leg he bites his lip in pain and collapses immediately back onto the sofa. He fails to completely suppress the pained sound that escapes his mouth.

Suddenly the door is flung open. John barely has time to take in the sight of Sherlock before the Detective rushes to John’s side. He appears unchanged from the last time he saw him – Belstaff framing his lithe body, high quality tailored suit enveloped beneath it, and curls wild upon his head.

 

_There you are you mad bastard._

 

John breathes a sigh of relief that Sherlock seems to be uninjured, unlike his own jolly self. With that assurance aside, other thoughts and feelings make themselves known in Johns head at the sight of the Detective. For instance, how it is obvious Sherlock and the mysterious second shooter – the woman, knew each other, and how it could not be a coincidence that Sherlock and John were suddenly shot at, chased, and then summarily assisted by aforementioned woman all after Sherlock so abruptly abandoned the Opera House.

Other than an effusive answer that didn’t really answer anything, Sherlock didn’t give John a reason for the abrupt change in plans. With what happened afterwards…a small detail of the evening suddenly blooms in John’s memory, that of Sherlock reaching into his pocket and making several movements before stilling…his mobile, _of course._

All the little pieces, including the fact that even when John had thought they were simply walking and Sherlock really may have just been bored with the Opera – in hindsight the route they were taking seemed very deliberate, make one thing clear to John.

 

_He knew something was going to happen, hah, he’s Sherlock, of bloody course he did…_

 

At the time Sherlock didn’t seem to be expecting the shooter, but he certainly wasn’t surprised by the woman who appeared (with a gun no less). And though the memory is somewhat hazy, John remembers the familiarity with which the woman spoke to Sherlock. If all this doesn’t somehow turn out to be a case, John will go all Hannibal Lecter on his foot.

 

_Is this why he agreed so easily to come here in the first place?_ John asks himself.

John can’t help the needle of anger, and hurt, that Sherlock didn’t deem it important to confide in him that they were indeed on a case, especially when John very clearly asked him if it was. Sherlock seldom tells John everything, something he has long since learned to make peace with, but with everything else that’s happened – and the fact that John got shot this time – John is having a hard time making peace with this at the moment. If Sherlock knew they were on a case John would have made _sure_ he was being more alert.

Did Sherlock not trust him with the information for some reason?

Even with the odd uncertain tension lingering between them, like a wound that won’t heal, John hasn’t doubted that Sherlock trusts him, and that miraculously John still trusts Sherlock. Then again, this is the first time Sherlock has appeared to have blatantly lied about something like this since…since Moriarty.

_That_ particular memory doesn’t help John’s mood, his hands involuntarily clench. John takes a deep breath and forces himself to go through a breathing exercise his therapist once taught him to do. John has never had the most controlled of tempers; perhaps before he gives into it John owes Sherlock the benefit of the doubt because there has to be an explanation for all this, and so help the lanky bastard John will get one.

Sherlock stops a couple feet away from John, carefully observing John’s increasingly tense posture and the slight glare he is firing Sherlock’s way.

It wouldn’t take an observational genius like Sherlock to read John’s displeasure with him.

When John notices the look of concern Sherlock donned when he had first entered the room melt away at the look on John’s face, the memories of how Sherlock reacted when John got shot resurface…more specifically, that moment where Sherlock _touched_ his forehead to John’s.

John feels abruptly warm at the memory, and squeezes his eyes shut – silently willing himself to not do something embarrassing like _blush. What is this? Don’t be an idiot!_

He then remembers thinking that he had only ever seen Sherlock look like that when John has been in danger. John isn’t sure what to do about the variety of feelings that thought causes…or what to do with being so indisputably confronted with the reality of how much he might mean to Sherlock.

John has always shied away from thoughts like that one, and from the reason why, because…Well, John doesn’t get farther than that. John stops himself here, the maelstrom of emotions already too much for his control at present to handle.

He sighs and groans in frustration, taking another deep breath before unclenching his hands in an attempt to compose himself.

 

_Focus John, focus, now is what matters, you were shot remember? Find out what the hell is going on…I can always drown myself in a pint or two later..._ Sherlock’s eyes so close to his own, cold nose softly touching his… _maybe a dozen._

 

“John?”

 

Sherlock’s query interrupts John’s thoughts, for which he’s actually grateful.

John ignores the throbbing in his leg for now and meets Sherlock’s gaze unblinkingly. Sherlock is standing stiffly, tense before him, he is the very image of a man waiting or expecting to be judged. His face may appear fairly expressionless, but for someone who has known Sherlock for years, as much as someone can ever really _know_ Sherlock Holmes, John can tell the expression is being forced. The faint crease between his eyes betrays his wariness at John’s continued silence, obviously wondering why John hasn’t laid it into him yet.

Angry or not, John will never get used to whenever that Sherlockian gaze gives him _‘the look’_ …which doesn’t mean that John hasn’t long since become immune to the almost childlike expression Sherlock will give him when the bugger _knows_ he’s done something John believes to be wrong and thinks if he can look as innocent as possible John won’t be _too_ angry; which also doesn’t mean that Sherlock doesn’t look ridiculously adorable when he does so, like now. Not that John will ever, _ever_ admit to it. _What happened to not being an idiot?_

 

“No more lies, excuses or diversions Sherlock, tell me what the _hell_ is going on.” John congratulates himself for how calm he manages to sound…at first. “Is all this all part of some sort of case you didn’t reckon I ought to know about _until_ I got bloody _shot_ first?” John’s tone has gone from relatively controlled to bitter quickly.

 

Sherlock’s wince when John mentions being shot is _just_ barely perceptible, but it is there for a moment. Sherlock covers the slip by taking a deep breath; by the look of the crease in his forehead he is restraining himself from showing frustration.

John watches with narrowed eyes as the man makes an aborted movement towards the sofa where John is currently sat. He instead moves towards the desk. Sherlock pulls the straight-backed wooden chair out from behind it, picks it up; walks back towards John, and then places the chair directly perpendicular to John so it faces him.

 

_Well, looks like I’ll get an explanation at least._

 

Sherlock takes a seat and stares at John without hesitation; eyes focused, lips thin, his hands clasped together atop the crease of his thighs and the long wings of his coat splayed over the rest of the chair. It is the look Sherlock adorns when speaking with clients, John knows it well. The only crack in his stoic façade is a brief glance Sherlock casts towards John’s leg; the lump of a bandage visible through the material of the trousers he’s wearing. This appears to cause Sherlock to shake for a moment before returning to his apparent state of ease; looking John in the eye.

Because John is watching carefully for any sign of… _something_ , he sees this all.

Why is Sherlock trying so hard to appear more at ease than he really is? Generally Sherlock has more often than not acted more amused or intrigued by John when the Doctor is angry, not… _this._

Neither of the two men notice the woman leaning against the wall just outside of the door; conveniently eavesdropping on them. One of whom she knows personally, and the other she knows only by what the former told her nearly three years ago.

 

“First of all, you have made several assumptions. However I will concede they are assumptions not without…precedence.” Sherlock begins.

 

John huffs and leans back, the action causing the skin of his wound to pull. He winces; Sherlock’s eyes narrow perceptibly at the movement.

 

John crosses his arms defensively.

 

“Oh? You think so do you?” John’s voice is biting.

 

Sherlock ignores the comment.

 

“There is a case-” John’s jaw clenches. “-but I didn’t know about its existence with certainty until we were _already_ being pursued.” John rapidly blinks, his bearing relaxing slightly. Sherlock continues. “Admittedly I highly suspected there was one when I received a call from an acquaintance while I was out this morning. She requested my assistance with a personal matter. She stated that the details would be better explained in person, and requested that I meet an associate of hers for directions on where to meet her. If nothing else that piqued my interest, since I know she would have given me the directions herself, she obviously had reason to be cautious. The original plan had been to initially meet away from her work address and make an assessment of the situation before ultimately deciding if it was safe to head to the clinic; where we currently are at present. Ensuing…circumstances made that decision for us.” Sherlock breathes deep, the fingers of his clasped hands twitching, and looks away from John for a moment. The latter waiting patiently, sitting forward in his seat, for Sherlock to continue. “Given the nature of her work and what little I knew, I suspected – correctly it turns out, of course - that there would be others involved. Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate that they would show themselves before I began to actively assist her, without all the facts the variables were significant. She has verbally only given me negligible details so far, after observing her in person deducing her reasons for approaching me was not difficult.”

 

_Hm, there’s definitely a deeper story there with this woman…_ Sherlock seems very intent on portraying nothing but sincerity, and so far, John believes what he’s saying.

 

“John…” Sherlock continues, a bit lower than before. “It was – It _is_ never my intention to wound you.” The choice of words is clearly deliberate, the look he gives John’s leg before quickly glancing away again makes it almost seem like Sherlock blames himself for John’s current injury.

 

John sighs and nods brusquely, accepting the explanation. Sherlock appears to relax a little.

 

John still has questions though; about the actions of earlier, his stitches, the various diplomas and the somewhat hesitant mention of a ‘clinic’ it’s obvious this woman is a Doctor. “The woman with the gun-”

 

“That was Dr. Julia Almont.” Sherlock interrupts. “Educationally speaking.” He adds as an afterthought.

 

John, about to continue, pauses at the added clarification. _Educationally speaking?_

 

“What does that even-?”

 

Before John can ask what Sherlock means, a woman enters the room. With the addition of some light, John can see her much clearly now, it is definitely the woman from before – this must be Dr. Almont.

She looks to be at least ten years younger than him; thick blond hair tied loosely in a bun, Caucasian and sun tanned, average weight, attractive with wide set dark brown eyes, a button nose curved slightly upwards with a deeply defined jaw that can rival Sherlock’s own cheekbones. She is currently wearing rectangular shaped glasses, a white top wrapped in a lose, button up grey jumper and baggy red trousers.

John is a hot-blooded man; he would have to blind not to notice how beautiful she is. He has not had a relationship, of any kind, since Mary…hasn’t much felt the need, or urge to, if he is to be completely honest. John suspects that if he had met this woman _before_ all that happened, he would’ve turned on the John Watson charm he is famed for in over three continents. Now…now something has changed. If he could just identify what that something _is_ , he suspects he would find this train of thought a lot less frustrating…maybe, probably just wishful thinking.

 

“Hello Dr. Watson.” Dr. Almont greets with a sunny grin. “What Sherlock means is that while I still have the skill, education and _experience_ of being a Doctor, my licence was revoked many years ago, but that is a whole other story. So to sum up, _technically_ I’m no longer a Doctor. My skill is none the less sharp, I can assure you.”

 

John nods with a small smile. He may not know her, but Sherlock obviously trusts her, something that is not easily gained. “Dr. Almont, nice to meet you.”

 

“It’s Julia, John. I feel as though I know you already. And not just because I saw _all_ your business, I am a professional though not a peeping tom so not to worry.” Dr. Almont winks at John, he smiles back out of habit more than anything else.

 

_So she was the one who dressed me…at least it wasn’t Sherlock, that would’ve just been awkward, for me anyway, the daft git has no compunction about nudity whatsoever._

She glances at Sherlock before snorting, clearly amused for some reason. She then situates herself between John and Sherlock; the three of them now forming a triangle.

John glances at Sherlock, then blinks in surprise when he notices Sherlock is looking at neither one of them; his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point off John’s right. The biggest surprise is that Sherlock’s body is tense again, fingers fidgeting with each other, an action he does when he is either focusing hard on something, or is feeling impatient.

John looks back at Dr. Almont – _Julia_ , the woman is very obviously trying not to laugh.

 

_Err…what the hell is going on?_

 

“Have I missed something here?” John asks.

 

John’s voice seems to shock Sherlock at whatever state he had been in.

 

“Ha!” Julia laughs once. Sherlock glowers at her.

 

Their interaction is so… _familiar_. John is wondering exactly how they know each other…could they maybe be…? John suddenly feels himself getting tense for reasons which he is definitely _not_ going to think about. _Stop it John, this is Sherlock right? He’s practically a celibate priest._

“Oh unclench Sherlock.” Julia admonishes.

 

John raises an eyebrow at the comment.

He has seen the look Sherlock is currently sporting many times, the same look and smile he gets right before he is about to tear into someone with pin point deductive precision. Sherlock rests his elbows on the chair, palms placed together in a prayerful position, his eyes fixed on her.

 

_Uh oh._

 

“Julia dear, I believe you will find the allergy you have developed to the chemicals used in manufacturing polyester blend clothing is the cause of the rash you are _so_ mystified by, perhaps forgo the thongs for now. In addition, I highly recommend reconsidering the wisdom of your latest dalliance, hematolagnia is merely _one_ fetish of his I doubt you would find pleasant. In all likelihood he will approach you for a more… _intimate_ request soon.”

 

John glares at Sherlock with disapproval, barely raising a brow at the deductions themselves (while a part of him is impressed as always). She did pretty much save their arses for goodness sake!

He is half expecting Julia to slap Sherlock, or tell him to piss off, as is the usual response for this kind of thing.

He is not expecting Julia to merely groan in something akin to disappointment.

 

“I don’t even want to know how you know all that – I said I don’t want to know!” Julia raises her voice a bit at the end when Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. “Ugh, hematolagnia? Really?” She gives Sherlock an almost pleading look. Sherlock merely raises a single eyebrow. “Damn. Well, I’ve heard of worse things…” Julia sighs and walks over to Sherlock. To John’s utter shock she reaches out and tousles Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock cringes away and looks at her with murderous eyes. “I have missed you Sherlock.”

 

John just blinks. _What the…_ “Who are you?” John asks, utterly dumbfounded by what just happened. He doesn’t know whether to be jealous, hug her or laugh at Sherlock’s obviously annoyed expression.

 

_Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous, why would I be jealous?_

 

Julia turns towards the couch and sits down beside John, carefully so as to not jostle his leg.

 

“Julia Almont is a highly manipulative individual with little respect for personal boundaries.”  Sherlock answers John’s question before the woman herself can, patting down his hair.

 

Julia laughs, and this time John understands why.

 

“No wonder you two get along.” John snorts, waving a causal finger between the two.

 

Julia hums in affirmation.

 

“Barely.” Sherlock mumbles. “To her credit though, Dr. Almont is – present company excluded – the most talented physician I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. And in comparison to the rest of the world, _not_ an idiot, which is the only reason I can tolerate her presence at all.” Sherlock sounds exasperated, but there is a hint of a smile to his face.

 

John tries not to feel like a spotlight is shining on him when he comes to the conclusion that even though they obviously know each other well, they obviously don’t know each other… _well,_ in that way at least _._ He almost laughs at himself for even thinking of the possibility that they might know each other romantically, or sexually, this is Sherlock Holmes…he just, doesn’t _do_ that. John certainly hasn’t seen evidence of it.

Their interaction almost reminds him of a brother and sister. All this doesn’t mean that in spite of liking her already, John doesn’t feel a bit off kilter for seeing Sherlock act like this with someone, a person he has never even _told_ John about…and in a way Sherlock and he haven’t teased each other for a while…is it wrong to feel jealous? Why should it even matter? John groans internally and locks away the thought as one of many to either look at a later time, or preferably forget altogether.

 

“You forgot I am one of the few people who can honestly say I have seen the dark side of _your_ moon.” Julia smirks.

 

John’s jaw drops. Sherlock moans loudly in displeasure as he rests his head against the back of the chair he’s sitting in.

 

“She _also_ makes horrible puns just to see how many cells of my brain she can atrophy.” Sherlock echoes dejectedly to the ceiling.

 

John is surprised at the sheer strength of the sudden urge he feels to demand he be enlightened as to how Dr. Almont and Sherlock know each other, _and_ the blush he’s fighting. John Watson, Army Doctor does not blush. It would be difficult for anyone to miss what Dr. Almost is referring to. John wonders if he was perhaps premature in his assumption that the two of them –

 

“Before your head explodes Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes here got himself shot in the gluteus maximus a few years ago. I was the lucky one who extracted the bullet and stitched him up. I cannot tell you how tempted I was to drag it out...” Julia sighs with put upon sadness.

 

Sherlock tenses a bit, a faint redness scattering his cheeks, very determinedly still staring at the ceiling; though his eyes flicker towards John.

John’s stomach twists and his entire body clenches. With that explanation, John does _not_ feel better. There are two reasons for this, one, an emotion John refuses to identify as possessiveness (because that wouldn’t make any sense, in the short amount time since having been shot, again, with the memory of a panicked Sherlock on top of that, he’s been having a more difficult time keeping these… _feelings_ , whatever they are, in check) is clawing at his throat in response to Julia’s enthusiastic comment about Sherlock’s arse.

And two, perhaps the biggest reason, is that if Sherlock was shot a few years ago… _wait, that would mean…_

 

“You _knew_ he was alive?” John breathes out, a feeling all too familiar swooping through his being like he himself has fallen from a great height…the comparison does _not_ help, if anything it makes it worse.

 

She _knew._

It has both been a while, and yet not, since Sherlock returned. John thought – or hoped that the wound would’ve healed by now, it hasn’t. As John honestly knew it hadn’t. Even though Sherlock is right here, sitting in front of him, even though it was all a lie, the grief, the _agony_ was so real it scarred John…in ways John doubts he will ever completely heal from.

This time when John moves and feels the pain in his leg, he relishes it.

_Fuck._ He really thought he was at least done _thinking_ about this. Every once in a while though, there will be a reminder, a trigger, that will bring all the feelings rushing back and John is right there…collapsing on that pavement beside his dead best-friend, and then two years later John is right there again, seeing the man he…oh fuck it, the man he _loved,_ his best friend, standing in front of them, as though no time has passed, wearing that tuxedo. The fact that the memory also contains Mary barely registers in the wake of Sherlock…Maybe that should tell him something.

No one responds to John’s question. No one needs to.

The silence is thick and cloying, Julia obviously realizing the Pandora’s Box she just unknowingly opened, and Sherlock…Sherlock is no longer splayed in the chair but sitting upright, alert, watching John with concern and appearing uncertain. Sherlock knows _exactly_ where John’s mind has gone.

John notices then exactly how tense his entire body has become and that he has leaned completely forward with his head in his hands – or rather, head on his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are stark white. He forces himself to breathe steadily, and deeply.

 

_Pull yourself together Captain Watson!_

 

John feels a pressure on his knee. Without moving his head he looks down and sees a familiar, long fingered hand.

 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, too quiet.

 

_No, not_ _this._ Not with what he just thought in his head. _Time to move on._

 

John lets his hands fall and leans back against the couch; Sherlock’s hand falls away as a result. The latter frowns, poised as though to speak. He doesn’t however and leans back in his own chair, his eyes look almost… _sad._

Julia to John’s right is watching the two of them carefully, silently, _thoughtfully._

 

“We’ve gotten off track a bit here yeah? Remember, I got shot. Julia, what’s going on?” John tries a forced smile, intended to reassure. He is desperate, very, _very_ anxious to move on.

 

(In more ways than one)

 

John does not look at Sherlock and instead turns so he is facing Dr. Almont. He uncurls his wounded leg and settles in to listen.

 

“John-”

 

“Do you know who was chasing us?” John quickly interrupts Sherlock with a louder, firmer tone. He hears a deep sigh from beside him.

 

John momentarily feels a bit guilty for talking to Julia that way, but not for long when he remembers she was one of the privileged few who knew Sherlock was alive (unfair the mature part of him knows, but damn it he doesn’t care). If her sympathetic eyes are anything to go by, she understands.

John pretends not to notice the look she shoots Sherlock.

 

“Yes and no. I know why, or at least I think I do. But I’ve never met, or seen, him before.” Julia takes off her glasses and pinches the corners of her eyes, one arm lying over the other, the glasses dangle precariously from the hand currently not against her face. It is an expression of weariness. She lets her hand fall.

 

Sherlock stands up suddenly and stretches a hand out towards Julia, palm up, other arm curled casually around his back. Both John and Julia look up in surprise. John is wary of meeting Sherlock’s gaze directly, but he needn’t worry since Sherlock is looking very intently at Julia.

The two men are obviously avoiding the others gaze, each for their own reasons.

Julia’s surprise melts away when Sherlock gestures towards her glasses. She gives Sherlock a pleased smile and places the frames in his hand.

 

“Thank-you.”

 

Sherlock gives a slight nod before striding away, beginning a pacing regime from one end of the room to the other; Julia’s glasses held firmly behind his back.

John looks at Sherlock this time, mouth parted in disbelief. That was… _almost_ considerate, a gesture done without benefits or reason; a rarity for Sherlock.

This only adds to the increasingly present thought _‘I don’t know what to think, or feel, anymore’_

 

“Start at the beginning, I trust you will leave nothing out.” Sherlock’s voice is loud and abrupt, shocking John out of his momentary reverie.

 

John gives an inward thanks that Sherlock hasn’t tried to talk to him again. At this point John dreads the next time he is alone in the same room as the man...which doesn’t bode well for their friendship.

Never-the-less, right now all that doesn’t matter, the case – whatever it is, needs to be the focus now.

 

“I would assume that you’ve figured it out by now.” Julia attempts a smile, though it seems a bit forced to John.

 

Sherlock hums. “For the most part, yes, it was rather obvious when I saw both you and what little of the clinic I’ve been able to observe so far.” He shrugs, noncommittal. Sherlock pauses to stand in front of the only window in the room, behind the desk, his back to the room. John watches as Sherlock takes off his coat and throws it gracelessly over the wooden surface of the desk, exposing his black suit complete with pale blue shirt. According to the clock on the wall, it is nearing midnight. Almost Christmas…John certainly never thought he would be _here_ last year. “In order to get a more complete picture, it would be helpful to hear it all from your own lips. Then I will examine the entirety of the clinic.”

 

From little John has been able to gather, Julia seems only mildly distressed, not scared but definitely on edge. It’s clear she’s controlling herself exceptionally well and you only need to control yourself when there’s something you feel the need to control.

John turns to give Julia his full attention; ready to listen.

 

“Alright,” Julia takes a deep breath. “It started about two weeks ago. I’d actually made my own plans to deal with this, it is very much my luck that you happen to be in the same city and one of my contacts managed to spot you.” Julia directs the last comment towards Sherlock. John nods slowly. She really wasn’t part of the reason Sherlock agreed to come after all…another small mystery on top of a larger one. “I work in a…let’s say a grey morality area, some of the people I do work for are “better” than others, more…moral, some not so much. Every once in a while I’ll catch some unwanted attention, but generally it is nothing I can’t handle. I make it a habit to not stay in one place for too long. Originally I’m from the United States and I’ve been everywhere from South America to Russia to Africa. I’ve been here in Milan for a couple of months. I had actually been planning on leaving in a few weeks when I got a call.”

 

John holds up a hand before Dr. Almont can continue.

 

“I’m sorry, but what exactly _is_ it that you do?” All John has been able to figure out for sure is that she is a Doctor, and is involved in something not strictly legal, which explains why she probably hasn’t contacted the police, plus she knows Sherlock. John is fairly certain that anyone within Sherlock’s circle of acquaintances, even friends, isn’t squeaky clean. “Are you a…mob doctor or something?” John posits, mostly as a joke, but honestly he suspects it isn’t far from the realm of possibility.

 

Sherlock huffs in amusement.

 

“Sort of.” John raises an eyebrow. Julia turns her attention to him. “I like to think of myself as a doctor for everyone, I don’t let things like money and insurance get in the way of helping people. Unfortunately, it is near impossible to do that within the system and _not_ get caught, hence my licence being revoked. I have my own set of morals and rules, but I don’t bring them into my medical ‘career’-” Julia emphasizes the latter with quotations using both her hands. “-the only way I am able to operate as I do, and _not_ get imprisoned, is to have powerful friends, friends that have the influence and the money. In return I assist their people on medical matters in most avenues whenever I can; since I am a specialized surgeon, diagnostician _and_ GP, this covers just about everything; one of my biggest accomplishments, especially because of my age. All that ceased to matter one day just because I wouldn’t stop being a compassionate human being.” Julia looks away for a moment and shakes her head, anger tinged in the lines of her mouth.

 

She shakes it off and once again looks to John after giving Sherlock a passing glance. John assumes this is because he likely knows this already, and John finds himself intrigued by her story. Sherlock isn’t the only one who enjoys their work after all.

 

“The long and short of it is, I am skilled enough that I am worth their time, and since my level of skill is a rare enough commodity, I highly doubt I’ll get offed unless I do something _truly_ stupid.” Julia shrugs, shockingly unconcerned. “They fund me in almost everything, but after having done this for years; I have developed my own network as it were. Do I wrestle with my conscious on occasion? Hell yes.” She sighs. “But, I figure the payoff is worth it. If patching up a bullet wound for a nefarious gang member gives me the money and clout to bribe the supplies I need and in doing so I am then able to help treat and heal hundreds of people who couldn’t do so otherwise, not just the homeless, but poorer people as well, then I can deal with that. Still, I try to only go where I am genuinely needed; if I bring too much attention to myself I’m screwed.” Julia is repeating all this like she has done so many times before, but John can say he admires her for attitude and dedication, whether he agrees with the entirety of her methods or not. “That’s pretty much it. With all that in mind, I’m sure from that you can figure out how I came across Sherlock.” Julia reaches up to adjust her hair into a tighter bun while making a gesture towards the still and statuesque Detective still standing in front of the window.

 

It takes only a second before it clicks… _ah, of course._

 

“You assisted him while he was…” John’s voice trails off and he makes a generic hand movement, feeling that creeping off kilter sensation as he tries not to finish that sentence, especially considering Moriarty turned out to be alive in the end anyway.

 

However, John is glad Sherlock had…someone to look out for him, at least sometimes.

Even if it wasn’t him.

There is an awkward pause, Sherlock suspiciously silent, before Julia speaks.

 

“Yep, ran into him a couple times actually. I didn’t merely fondle his, if we’re being entirely honest here, _glorious_ tushie-” Sherlock huffs indignantly and John has to resist the urge to smile whilst most assuredly not picturing _anything._ Julia grins. “-I also ended up becoming an informant. I had never been a part of James Moriarty’s network, but some people I came into contact with had. You could say a couple of my funders were occasionally “competitors” of his. Win win.”

 

John feels the old, familiar anger at the mention of Moriarty…so many reasons to _hate_ that man.

 

“Dr. Almont! Do you need my help or not?” Sherlock is very close to shouting, hands clenched tightly behind his back.

 

John can’t help but be grateful for Sherlock’s impatience for once; the topic steadily heading a direction that not’s going to help anyone right now.

Julia abruptly closes her mouth and gives Sherlock a calculating look. Her eyes flicker to John, then to Sherlock and back again. After a minute, she nods.

 

“Anyway, so I got this call,  nothing unusual; just one of my contacts calling about a young woman who approached them in pain, saying they needed to see me. More often than not that’s the kind of thing I mostly deal with. I generally don’t ask questions when people choose to come to me rather than… _technically_ legal sources. I’ve made that mistake before, and more than once I’ve needed to find my own nefarious doctor for my troubles.” Julia snorts a tad bitterly and absently rubs at two of her fingers. John gives them a cursory once over and notices one of them is at an odd angle from the first knuckle up.

 

“When the young woman arrived, I saw that she had somehow dislocated her shoulder. Which wasn’t even the worst part.” Julia, John has observed, is rather good at keeping her emotional inflections when speaking relatively level, especially when she’s been talking about her work; a trait quite common in doctors and those who need to maintain an objective point of view. Now though, Julia’s façade has hardened, her mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes hesitant to meet either John or Sherlock’s gazes; the latter of whom has now turned around to face her. John reaches out and places his hand on her shoulder; she in turn gives him a grateful smile. “She looked terrified, wasn’t even wearing a coat, just a long skirt and a pyjama top; it wouldn’t have taken a genius like Sherlock over here to realize she was running from something. It was so cold; I’m _still_ surprised she didn’t have hypothermia on top of everything else. She seemed…ok enough when I showed her to my examination room, told me her name was Anne. She was obviously anxious, and yet…I noticed she was so _careful,_ almost obsessively so, about not expressing _any_ pain, it was just one of the many things that had alarm bells going off in my head.” Julia shakes her head and stands up, her presence and form; transforming from a confident, relaxed poise to one of consummate control, the only sign of unease being the crease between her eyes and slight twist of her mouth.

 

John has little trouble believing she is genuinely good at what she does, and obviously compassionate, two traits not all Doctors have John is sad to know; often it is one or the other.

Julia is walking towards Sherlock, and he – anticipating her needs – places her glasses back in her palm when she reaches him. John has the passing thought of being surprised that they don’t appear bent from the way Sherlock had been clenching his hands before. Then again, if John hadn’t been looking at him, you would never guess that only moments ago Sherlock had been tense at all. Now, in the poised, collected way he stands, his eyes never losing sight of Dr. Almont; intent on analysing every detail he sees and hears as she dons her glasses and takes up a large notepad from her desk, it is easy to tell Sherlock is in his element.

John goes back and forth from being admiring and occasionally frustrated by the way Sherlock can completely slip from one state to another. It is an ability that makes it difficult, if not impossible, to _truly_ know the man. He can be quite the actor.

Ultimately, especially with the events of the last couple of years and tonight even, John gets so much conflicting information from Sherlock. There are times when he feels almost alien to John, despite being best friends.

John can admit to himself it is one of the things he has always found so intriguing about the Detective, the man exudes a dangerous sense of unknown John can’t help but be drawn to…obviously. Even so, with the lingering memories of his faked suicide, to the wariness and strain that’s been building for months, and finally the sight of an genuinely tender Sherlock at John’s side, one thing John can’t deny no matter how angry he gets, it is that Sherlock has a passion and dedication incomparable to anyone John has ever known.

Depending on John’s mood, John will either _curse_ himself at being continuously pulled back to the man no matter how much of an utter _dick_ he is or, let’s be honest, _grateful_ for it. Sherlock provides him with something no one else does, or nothing ever has in quite the same way; excitement, and pure, unadulterated _life_ 24/7. Sure John wouldn’t be sad if that happened _without_ the sacrifice of all his sanity, but…sanity and Sherlock don’t go together, and John knows which side he would rather belong to.

 

John inwardly sighs. _Good choice of words there._

 

“When I got her to sit down, carefully, I remember very clearly that she would not meet my eyes and kept looking around the room, barely spoke a word.” Julia’s continuation disengages John from his thoughts, if only that happened sooner.

 

At times like this John wonders when so many of his thoughts became centered on Sherlock Holmes.

 

John changes his position slightly to face Dr. Almont, currently standing in between Sherlock and John reading something on her notepad. “I asked her when this happened, about twenty minutes she said, I gave her the strongest analgesic I had at the time and then asked her if she needed my help in removing her shirt. She nodded, and then…” Julia pauses, looking up from her notepad with her eyes narrowed and gazing at some point in the middle distance.

 

 “Yes…?” Sherlock encourages, with his impatience remarkably restrained – for him.

 

When Julia doesn’t continue after a few seconds, he turns away from her and eyes the shelf to the left of the sofa.

 

“She asked for a glass of water.” Julia says. “It was…strange.”

 

John frowns, while Sherlock looks to Julia with a sort of _‘aha’_ expression.

 

“Why was that strange?” John can’t help but ask.

 

Julia shakes her head. “ _That_ isn’t what was strange; I remember when coming back from getting the water I sensed there was something…different. I couldn’t pin point what it was ‘till just now. Now, I remember. It was her shirt. When I came back, her overall demeanour wasn’t different, but the top button of her shirt was undone and her hair seemed even messier. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary happened. She took a sip of the water, and then I helped her with her shirt. There was quite a lot of rectangular bruising on her arm and upper back, like she fell.”

 

“Or was pushed.” Sherlock mutters to himself.

 

John’s jaw clenches. Throughout Julia’s recounting, John had been wondering if this woman – _Anne_ – she had been talking about was a victim of abuse. In his multiple lines of work, John has seen a lot of evidence of it, especially as a doctor.

 

Julia nods. “There were no marks on her otherwise. Lucky for her, I have quite a bit of experience with dislocated limbs. I was able to deal with it without much struggle; she did scream once and bit her lip to near bleeding afterwards. Afterwards I gave her a bottle of NSAIDs, good for several weeks, wrapped her arm in a sling and then helped her put her shirt back on – half on really, then I gave her a spare jacket, a hat and some gloves. I practically had to push them at her before she would take them. There was just no way I was letting that poor girl back out there with the snow blowing like it was. I tried to offer her more, but she wouldn’t take it, she was very determined to leave.” Julia takes another deep breath. “That was on a Monday, on the Wednesday after I arrived back here to find the place had been broken into and ransacked, but nothing stolen.”

 

“Nothing?” John frowns. _How…bizarre._

 

Julia shrugs. “Nothing.”

 

“Hm…if the two of you are quite done being _parrots_ , continue Dr. Almont.” Sherlock says, tenor the edge of biting. His attention obviously on her though his eyes seem fixed on some point of the shelf, moving books and looking in between them for no particular reason that John can see.

 

“Yes master,” Julia drones. John grins, and then grins a bit wider when Sherlock shoots her an annoyed look. “Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve been burgled, but usually that implies _actual_ stealing. It was odd, but since I couldn’t think of any reason for it, I cleaned up, nailed up a board of wood across the broken window the culprit must have entered, and later I left for the day. The next day, I came back again to the exact same thing. Broken into, different window this time – I knew I should’ve done the rest, stupid of me - ransacked, nothing stolen. I don’t know what they were looking for, but since I haven’t been broken into since then I figured they must have found whatever it was they were looking for or gave up. I had nearly written off the entire incident, but then the next day I started being followed.”

 

“Do you know by whom?” John asks.

 

“Nope, but I assume whoever it is, they are somehow connected with the man who shot you. I know he wasn’t the one who was following me; that person is much shorter. All I know is that they have never approached me directly, I have not been sent any threatening messages, but every day for over a week I have spotted the same person – a man I think, they are always very heavily dressed up so it’s hard to tell, regardless this person has been following me everywhere. I’ve always managed to shake them before arriving at my apartment, but…I won’t deny, am fucking creeped out!” Julia finishes on a frustrated note and paces a little, arms folded neatly across her torso.

 

John hums. “And you think _all_ of this is connected?” If it is, whatever is happening is escalating, break-ins to stalking, and now the man with a gun, John can’t quite figure where this woman named Anne fits into all this…Thinking over what Julia has already mentioned, the water thing seems to stick out, could it have been a distraction? Get Julia out of the room for some reason? Why?

 

“Call it intuition or whatever, but yes, I do.”

 

“It is, obviously.”

 

John and Julia turn to look at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock straightens out of his slight crouch and looks at Dr. Almont. “I need to see the exam room Anne was in.”

 

“And _then_ you’ll tell us what that massive brain of yours has figured out?” John asks Sherlock directly, for the first time in several minutes.

 

Sherlock whips his head to face John,  looking vaguely surprised; perhaps since John is addressing him directly for the first time in several minutes.

 

“Once I am in possession of all the facts, yes.” Sherlock nods. “Though at this point I mostly just need to confirm a theory, of which I anticipate being correct of course.”

 

“Show off.” John mumbles, a smile threatening to pull at the corner of his mouth.

 

John sees Sherlock restraining a smirk before turning to give John a long, assessing look. Sherlock’s expression is unreadable when he turns away from John and walks over to his coat and pulls his small magnifier out of one of the pockets. Before either John, or Julia, can say anything more Sherlock is striding out of the room.

 

“Humble much?” Julia snorts, appearing amused; quite obviously pretending, for the moment, that she didn’t see the look shared between Sherlock and John though she must have. “Not that I’m not thrilled, of course.”

 

John barks a gust of laughter. “Sherlock is many things; humble has never been one of them.”

 

“True, true.” Julia responds.

 

John nods. “I guess we should follow him yeah?” John says and begins to rise from the sofa…and just like before, the second he puts weight on his wounded leg he feels a pulse of stabbing pain. He grits his teeth and forces himself to stay standing; there is _no_ way he is going to sit on his arse while Sherlock flies off the handle of a case. John can recuperate and pay the consequences later.

 

He takes a few deep breaths.

Julia watches him with concern and then moves away towards another door. She opens it and reaches for something. A few seconds later she is standing in front of John with a cane.

 

John blinks. _Should I laugh or scream?_

The irony and parallel to John’s first use of a cane is blatant.

 

“I would offer you some crutches, but…I figured you would prefer to have more control and freedom with your other arm.”

 

While not exactly thrilled at the prospect of using a cane again, he will need it for some support if he wants to get anywhere for at least a couple of days, especially tonight.

 

“Ta.” John gives Julia a polite smile and takes the cane.

 

The grip and sensation of the object is bitterly familiar, but after a couple of test steps John, despite the pain, finds it not intolerable to move.

John can hear a few things banging about not too far away, and assuming that is where Sherlock has scampered off to, John makes to follow.

When John reaches the office door, a grimace every few steps, Julia calls out to him.

 

“Dr. Watson…John, may I have a word?”

 

John stops walking and turns to face her. Her arms are crossed and those wide brown eyes of hers are fixed on his with a look similar to when Sherlock has his attention fixated through the lens of a microscope.

Sherlock may trust her, and John has so far yet to see a reason not to (mob connections aside), it wouldn’t even be a stretch to say that he respects her to a point, but even so…John’s posture stiffens at the look on her face.

 

“Alright…?” John tightens his grip on the cane.

 

“I realize that we’ve only just met, god awful circumstances too, and I certainly don’t know Sherlock as well as you do, but I find myself…concerned.” Julia steps closer towards John, making it impossible for John to avoid her gaze.

 

_“_ Why would you be concerned about Sherlock?” John nods towards the open door, his voice somewhat apprehensive and perhaps a little _de_ fensive.

 

“You’re really _not_ an idiot John, why do you insist on being one?”

 

John tenses.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Julia rolls her eyes and sighs deeply.

 

“Ok, look, I don’t know all the details of the last year, and the last time I spoke with Sherlock directly was not long after he returned to England, but I do know one thing; I _know_ what a heartbroken and lost Sherlock looks like. He tries to hide it, and boy is he good, but Sherlock isn’t the only one with powers of observation.”

 

John laughs bitterly. “I’m sorry, but are you serious? Sherlock, _heartbroken?_ I don’t think we’re talking about the same man here.” John persistently ignores how false those words taste. He just…he can’t, a part of John knows he’s being unfair, but if he thinks otherwise of Sherlock…John can’t come back from that.

 

Julia blinks slowly. “Wow, you really are in denial aren’t you?” John feels a bubble of anger, which Dr. Almont evidently sees because she puts her hands up in defense. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. It’s just…Sherlock reminds me of someone I used to know, my little brother, childlike, unique, incredibly smart…he has ever since I first met him. Sherlock doesn’t consider me a friend, but I think of him as one, and I am sure we can both agree that Sherlock can be incredibly ignorant about some things.”

 

John is decidedly not happy with this conversation, but he does agree with that point. He in fact said something very similar in his first case blog about him.

John nods but doesn’t speak, inwardly debating whether or not he should just leave before she can say something that will mess with John’s head even more.

 

_Certainly don’t need any more help with that._

 

“The few times I saw him during those two years, he was so incredibly focused, working as fast and thoroughly as he could…with that kind of determination, I figured he had something to go home to. You know what he said when I asked him what that was?” She appears to be waiting for some kind of response from John. He can honestly say he has very little idea how Sherlock would answer that kind of question.

 

John knows Sherlock loves his life, loves what he does, and maybe in some twisted way probably enjoyed the “game” of unthreading Moriarty one net at a time, perhaps he missed the Skull.

 

“I don’t know.” John shrugs, with a bit of a fake smile.

 

Julia hums. “Well, he ignored me initially. However, I have a bad habit of eavesdropping, pretty much my only vice ok? Anyway, I left the room where we were at the time and waited just outside the doorway to see if he did anything. He did. Pulled out his phone like he was going to make a call, he stopped before he could press talk. The only thing he said was ‘I wasn’t supposed to miss you’, _you._ I bet my jiggly boobs I know _exactly_ who he was talking about, Dr. Watson.”

 

On that note she brushes past John, careful to avoid his injured leg, with a vaguely sad expression, and leaves the room; presumably to go after Sherlock.

John is frozen in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears, stomach swooping and feeling faintly sick.

He sighs and brushes a tired hand down his face, very much ignoring the Pandora’s Box labelled ‘Sherlock Holmes’ rattling around in his head.

 

_What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Why would she even…? Christ, I can’t…can’t deal with this right now_

 

_“Wow, you really are in denial aren’t you?”_

 

John groans angrily and turns around, with the intent of marching to wherever Sherlock and Dr. Almont are. Committed to helping Sherlock solve this case in whatever capacity he can with a wounded leg. Then Sherlock and he, probably just John, can apologize to Mrs. Blackhart for the abrupt departure, and then go home on the 26th as scheduled, back to London and 221b. 

Everything will be fine; Sherlock and John will find their equilibrium again. They just need a little time, a little bit more time, and then the strange distance will lift and everything will go back to normal.

 

_“You’re really not an idiot John, why do you insist on being one?”_


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Sherlock Holmes! What the _hell_ are you doing?”

 

The first thing John hears when he finds Sherlock and Julia, after having spent a few moments regaining his composure, is Dr. Almont scolding the Detective.

When John enters the room; complete with long counters and multiple cabinets on either side, including a medical table, bed, various equipment, and a few chairs lining the wall (also some boxes, many full but a few only halfway), it is easy to spot Sherlock.

The man has climbed onto the counter via chair and is now inspecting a spot of one of the cabinets with his miniature magnifier; the top of his curly head barely brushing the ceiling.

 

“Solving your problem.” Sherlock answers. He swipes his finger through some dark substances he finds, expression thoughtful. “I believe that is what you contacted me for.”

 

Julia rolls her eyes and throws her arms up in exasperation. “And that involves monkeying about on the counters?”

 

“Clearly.”

 

She snorts and leans against the opposite wall. At this point John enters the room fully; decidedly not looking at Julia, though seeing Sherlock as well has his mind spinning loudly with her words.

 

“How are we all getting along then?” John, cane in hand, makes his way over to a chair – the one closest to Sherlock – and sits down.

 

The sight of Sherlock walking on counters is not even close to the strangest thing he has seen the man do.

Julia glances towards John. Beyond a slight quirk of an eyebrow, she is showing no sign that their conversation ever took place.

 

“Fabulously, Sherlock here is showing off his impressive ability to balance and _I’m_ admiring the view.” Julia pointedly looks at John – he frowns – then back to Sherlock and winks with a smile.

 

John follows her gaze and feels a hot blush when he realizes she is referring to his arse…sans coat it is very much on display.

John briefly considers getting up and blocking her view, but then realizes that she is goading him on purpose.

He scowls.

Sherlock gives no sign that he even heard her, something John is grateful for.

Suddenly Sherlock exhales a familiar gasp and jumps – _backwards!_ – off the counter, completely bypassing the chair. Very quickly, he crouches by the trash can adjacent to the counter he jumped off of. After a few seconds of searching, he pulls out a dirty tissue and then pockets it.

 

John watches this feeling a bit perplexed. Sherlock turns around with a pleased smile.

 

“The young woman, Anne, hid something here, a piece of jewellery more specifically a necklace. It is she who broke in twice, which indicates it must have great sentimental value considering it would not have been easy to break in here with only one useful arm, though not impossible. This proves her determination. However, she is not responsible for you being followed Dr. Almont, though I believe she is connected to it. Probably it has something to do with why she felt the need to hide it in the first place. If that turns out to be the case, it is likely the necklace is also financially valuable as well. Julia, I need to see your flat.” Sherlock recites at his usual fast pace while straightening out his suit which had become ruffled from his acrobatic move before.

 

Julia frowns in thought.

 

“Whoa, whoa, back up there, _why_ would she do that?” John stretches his leg out and leans forward to watch Sherlock closely.

 

“And how do you figure it was a necklace?” Dr. Almont asks as well.

 

Sherlock smirks and looks at John, almost smug.

 

“It was fairly obvious. I’m sure John can tell you how I came to that conclusion.”

 

“Sherlock…” John gives him a narrow-eyed look. “You’re not doing this _just_ to make me look like an idiot are you?”

 

“Of course not, you are above average intelligence, nowhere near my calibre of course but I have confidence enough in your abilities to figure out this minor detail.”

 

_Git._

 

“Be careful Sherlock. That was _almost_ more of a compliment than an insult, wouldn’t want anyone to think you were decent. People might talk.” John grins.

 

The familiar moment of banter gives John hope maybe they can move past this hurdle in their relationship, and his smile unbidden turns a bit softer when Sherlock looks obviously pleased by the comment.

 

“It is hardly my intention to insult you John, I merely state the truth.” Sherlock counters with a smirk.

 

John snorts. “Arrogant arse.”

 

“Idiots.” Julia mutters under her breath, sighing into her hands. The comment goes unheard by Sherlock or John.

 

Sherlock’s smile widens. “Go on then John.”

 

“Ok, uh…” John frowns in thought as he thinks over what they know, both what Sherlock has observed and what Julia has told them…there was something…how would Sherlock – _oh._ John’s eyes light up. “The buttons, on the shirt?” John speculates.

 

Sherlock is positively _glowing_.

 

“Ohhhh…” Julia murmurs.

 

“Excellent John, further proof you are not the average idiot.” Sherlock’s corresponding nod is vaguely condescending, but his pleasure at what was admittedly an easy observation on John’s part is genuine none-the-less. Still…Julia bites her lip to keep from laughing. John silently wishes there was a newspaper nearby for him to wack Sherlock over the head with. “Now, Dr. Almont, you have a vehicle nearby I presume?”

 

“Yes, but-”

 

“Good. Drive us over to your flat and I will explain the details on the way.”

 

“Sherlock-” John tries.

 

“Make sure to take the easiest, most obvious way there and don’t drive too fast.” Sherlock speaks over both Julia and John as he exits the room and heads back to the office, probably for his coat.

 

Feeling more than a little frustrated, John pushes himself up and follows after Sherlock as swiftly as his injured leg allows. Julia is close behind.

 

 “Are you crazy? We’ll be followed for sure! What am I saying, of course you’re crazy.” Julia shouts after him.

 

They reach the office to see Sherlock donning his coat, and pulling his scarf out from one of the pockets. He wraps it around his pale, angular neck.

John observes the man with narrowed eyes for a moment.

 

“That’s what you want; you _want_ to allow this person to follow us.”

 

“Oh _hell._ ” Julia bangs her head once against the wall and heads over to her closet.

 

“Dr. Almont has a gun, and I would honestly be surprised if it turns out we will have to contend with more than one individual. This will all be dealt with a lot quicker if we allow them to follow us, and if he has been following her every night there is reason to believe he is out there waiting for us to leave. I don’t perceive any problems arising that the three of us won’t be able to handle.” Sherlock states all this while thumbing through something on his mobile.

 

“I’m not exactly at my best Sherlock.” John sighs. “And who knows what this guy could do – and so help me Sherlock if you say _‘I do’_ I will come over there and jab you with this cane!” John bites out the last when it looked like Sherlock had been about to speak. Sherlock, clearly saving his battles, abruptly closes his mouth. John is pretty certain he hears Julia giggle. “With me out of commission I’m practically useless and we only have one gun. There has _got_ to be a smarter way to do this.”

 

 _Goddamnit I wish I didn’t get shot._ If he hadn’t John would only feel marginally more comfortable with this. Even so, he hates to admit it but Sherlock is right; this will probably be the fastest way.

 

“Perhaps.” Sherlock concedes, much to John’s surprise. “But you are hardly useless John; even injured you are more proficient in hand to hand combat than many others. As you’ve noticed Dr. Almont is skilled with her weapon, and since I fully intend for us to arrive before the perpetrator, we’ll have at least a few minutes preparation time. Besides, this is the quickest, easiest way to the successful conclusion of this case.” Sherlock pockets his mobile and pulls his gloves out of his pocket.

 

John sighs, and abruptly finds his coat being draped over his shoulder by Julia. He gives her a nod of thanks before placing the cane against the wall, and then pulling the coat on and buttoning it up.

When John looks up it is to see Sherlock walking in John’s direction.

As John holds the cane in a far too familiar grip, Sherlock practically pushes his gloves at John again.

John feels a pang at the gesture.

 

“The easiest way isn’t always the right way Sherlock.” John tells him seriously as he pulls the gloves on.

 

Sherlock makes an aborted move to pass John. He turns his head slightly in John’s direction but doesn’t face him completely.

 

“So I have learned.” His voice is low, and thoughtful.

 

The air changes abruptly to something…else in the wake of Sherlock’s words. John looks at Sherlock and finds himself holding his breath. Sherlock meets John’s eyes tentatively before quickly looking away; a blank expression falls over his face.

John thinks he feels Sherlock brush against his arm as the Detective exits the room unnecessarily fast.

John breathes in shaky breath and turns to follow; his fingers grasping the cane even tighter than before.

 

 

Behind them is Julia Almont; standing there donned in her own winter wear, hat, mittens and coat, wondering if they forgot she was there.

She blinks herself out of her stupor.

 

“Seriously, _idiots._ ” Julia mutters to herself before grabbing her keys off her desk, exiting the study and closing the door behind her.

 

 

***

 

A few minutes later the three of them are in Julia’s car, a tiny blue thing barely large enough to hold three people, and are currently on their way to her flat. John has the back seat all to himself, in order to stretch out his injured leg, while Sherlock occupies the front seat with Julia who is obviously driving.

They’ve only been on the road a minute or two, the darkness and lights of the unfamiliar city whooshing by, and Sherlock has yet to say a word; texting something frantically on his mobile.

John leans forward, as much as his position and leg allow, and parks himself in between Julia and Sherlock, one elbow resting on each of their seats with his hands clasped in the middle.

 

“Care to enlighten us now Sherlock?”

 

“Hm?” Sherlock hums, still frowning at his mobile.

 

“Sherlock-” John starts, feeling frustrated.

 

He is interrupted however when Julia releases one hand from the stirring wheel and in a move John doubts Sherlock saw coming (until it was too late), she reaches over and yanks Sherlock’s mobile from his hands and pockets it.

Sherlock stares at her in shock, jaw flapping furiously with his hands frozen uselessly in the air. Julia just gives Sherlock a scolding side eye.

And _John_ leans back in his seat clutching his ribs to keep from exploding because he’s laughing bloody murder.

Sherlock whips around to look at John; his eyes full of betrayal.

This just makes John laugh harder.

 

“You will get your precious phone back once you’ve given us those details you mentioned.” Julia’s tone brooks no argument.

 

Sherlock looks at her, brow creased in infuriation.

 

 “I was dealing with a time sensitive matter, and I would remind you that I-”

 

“ _Sherlock._ ” John speaks firmly, mostly to keep Sherlock from unnecessarily insulting the woman _driving the bloody car._

 

Sherlock flicks an annoyed gaze towards John, and then to Julia, before facing the front again. A few seconds pass and then, as though the whole, odd, exchange never happened John can spot the very moment Sherlock slips into deducing mode.

 

“Dr. Almont, you’re moving correct?”

 

“Yes, but what does that-”

 

“I noticed you had several boxes, many of which were only half full, around the clinic, for the past couple of weeks you’ve been accumulating your supplies and other various items and regulating them to your flat. Including several plants, one of which was in the same room in which the young woman briefly occupied.”

 

“How did you-”

 

Sherlock waves away her question. “Obvious, minute soil deposits were left behind. Anne used her request for water as a distraction to hide her necklace in the plant, with every intention of coming back to get it. However, when she broke in to do so, you had already moved the plant. She panicked, searching for it, but when she didn’t find it she came back the next night to be sure. The fact that she didn’t try to approach you again shows me that someone close to her found out and frightened her into staying put, I suspect the very same individual she was hiding the necklace from. They got the truth of what she did out of her, and I suspect it was the same person that pushed her-”

 

John frowns deeply.

 

“How can you know for _sure_ she was pushed?” John interrupts.

 

“Really John? From what we know of Anne’s behaviour, it is obvious she lives in an environment where abuse, mostly emotional and psychological, on occasion physical, is common place. No one would leave their home, late at night with no coat, in their pyjamas, unless they had to get away quickly.”

 

“Fuck.” Julia mutters, and John echoes her sentiment; anger causing his fists and jaw to tighten.

 

He suspected, he just…didn’t want it to be true, and there is no reason to believe Sherlock is wrong.

 

“As I mentioned before, the necklace is most likely valuable. There is no logical reason for Anne to hide it somewhere, to give the illusion that it had been lost as I suspect that was her plan, unless it was important to her. For some financial reason, a family member – likely a father or brother – wanted to sell it. With the facts I currently have it is difficult to pin point exactly why, however it was probably debt they owe to a criminal acquaintance, given the nature of what has occurred so far and the physical state of the man who shot John, I suspect the motivation to be drug related. It is obvious she wasn’t homeless, and given that she obviously knew who to look for, someone she knew, probably through her families’ connection – which is where the most likely possibility of criminal acquaintance enters in – to Dr. Almont and her practice. An altercation occurred, she was pushed and from the bruising Dr. Almont described it was probably down a short set of stairs. She was able to get away and searched for you-” Sherlock nods in Julia’s direction. “-because of the lengths she went to protect it, the necklace likely belong to a deceased relative that meant a lot to her, and since Anne lives in an abusive home it would be all the more significant.”

 

Long ago, John learned to accept that even in the most horrible of cases, Sherlock will often view it with a manner of detachment that does nothing to disprove the assertion of him being cold hearted and unfeeling. It took even longer for John to recognize that it isn’t because Sherlock is unaffected; it is because he has no choice. John believes it is largely why Sherlock is so good at what he does, not letting “unnecessary” emotion cloud his senses.

There are times when to John it seems far too easy for Sherlock to do so, but that is simply the way he operates. John has noticed however that especially lately, it doesn’t seem to be as easy for Sherlock to maintain that cold distance as he once did. Like now, John and Julia are visibly angry at the talk of this young woman who is apparently being abused; to the regular outside observer Sherlock has is in fact maintained his detachment. However, despite his tone, there is tightness to Sherlock’s eyes that betrays the truth that he is not as unaffected as he seems, he’ll just never admit it.

 

“So that’s why we’re going to Julia’s flat, you believe the necklace is still in the plant.” John adds.

 

Julia meets John’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “It was not a _plant_ , it was a miniature _rose._ ”

 

John lifts his hands in mock defense.

 

From this angle John can see Sherlock quirk an amused smile.

 

“I know it is.” Sherlock grins. John rolls his eyes.

 

“And what about the guy who shot me?”

 

“And my stalker?” Julia asks she makes a turn down a busy street.

 

“The man who shot you-” John narrows his eyes when he notices Sherlock’s posture noticeably tightens. “-is most likely a friend of the stalker, and it was clear he only had minimal experience with a gun and I’m certain if the stalker could have afforded it, he probably would’ve hired someone with more skill. I suspect the stalker asked him to follow and stop me if I were to head in the direction of Dr. Almont’s clinic. In all likelihood he recognized the individual who handed me the message initially sent to me by Dr. Almont and suspected I was connected in some way. He was getting desperate, and will continue to do so and make mistakes.”

 

“The stalker?” John clarifies, watching Sherlock closely as he nods. John pieces a few more things together. “ _Oh_ …you think that the man stalking Julia is the brother or father of Anne and he was the one that got what Anne really did with necklace out of her somehow and started following Julia to see where she went, or where she lived, because he believes she must have it?”

 

Julia’s eyes widen briefly, tensing a bit in her seat. “And he hasn’t approached me directly because if he really does know who I am, then he knows I could twist and cut his balls while wearing a straightjacket, something he would _probably_ prefer to avoid.”

 

John again leans forward between the seats.

 

“Although if he is as desperate as Sherlock says, he probably would’ve eventually. You’ve obviously been too good at shaking him off, since he hasn’t been able to figure out where you live.”

 

Julia nods. “I keep my home base under tight wraps. I doubt he could easily find anyone in Milan who knows.”

 

“So now we’re purposefully leading the desperate bastard, who probably has his own gun, to your place. Perfect.” John says, with only _mild_ sarcasm.

 

“Seems so.” Julia shrugs. A twinge in his leg causes John to lean back. He really, he really hates being shot. “I haven’t twisted or cut anyone’s balls for a while…” She muses.

 

John snorts and Julia smirks.

John suddenly notices that Sherlock is suspiciously silent throughout this entire thing. He looks curiously at the Detective, and resists the urge to laugh when he notices that Sherlock has obviously taken advantage of John and Julia’s distracted state and has an arm stretched in the space between Julia’s back and the seat (she appears to have a habit of leaning forward slightly when driving), which is slowly pulling back and – _yes_ – with his mobile held delicately between his bare fingertips.

 

Sherlock meets John’s eyes in the rear-view mirror with a raised eyebrow. John shakes his head with an amused smile.

It isn’t until Sherlock pulls his arm away; mobile now clasped firmly in hand, and quickly returns the appendage to his lap, that Julia finally notices something just happened.

 

“Wha-?” Her brow is creased as she looks from Sherlock to John and back again, her eyes narrow in on the smirk adorning the Detective’s face and her jaw drops when she sees those nimble fingers flying across the pad of his mobile. The speed at which her head whips from side to side, from pocket to Sherlock, makes John feel dizzy. Julia then briefly rests her head against the back of her seat with a groan. “How did I not notice… _hell._ You’re good.” She giggles a little.

 

“Of course I am.” Sherlock smiles and pockets his mobile, hands clasped together and resting atop his thighs.

 

John snorts.

 

“And so modest.” Julia mutters.

 

“I believe John would beg to differ.” Sherlock teases.

 

John laughs again.

 

“Aw, you know we love you anyway buddy.” Julia reaches over and ruffles Sherlock’s hair.

 

Given her behaviour, immediately John can definitely see how Julia views him as a little brother.

Sherlock cringes away and stares at Dr. Almont with a look that could shatter diamonds. Julia of course is entirely unaffected.

 

“I find myself considering forgoing the consequences of ejecting oneself from a moving vehicle.” Sherlock mutters as he rearranges his hair.

 

Julia just ignores him, and John finds himself gazing at Sherlock with a small smile.

It isn’t until everything is silent for a few minutes that he realizes Julia’s words, though spoken with apparent jovial jest, were entirely serious and truthful in their implication, and that she gave John a sharp look through the rear-view mirror.

The smile slowly fades from John’s face and a more troubled, pensive expression takes over.

No matter what Sherlock does, no matter what his apparent flaws may be, John realizes something; he really does love him anyway.

With recent experiences fighting for attention and control (how John felt when Sherlock touched him so gently when he was lying, bleeding on the cold street…) with long held assumptions and old habits of denial and repression inside John’s mind, a question blares with siren strength; _how do I love him?_ John’s effort to smother the voice that says, _‘if you have to ask, doesn’t that answer your question?’_ , with only minimal success.

The street they’re on now is more deserted, old style apartment buildings are becoming more common, they’re probably nearly there.

John sighs, thoughtful and maybe a bit sad, not surprising given the direction of his thoughts.

The sound seems to have caught Sherlock’s attention. Out of the corner of his eye John sees Sherlock searching him with a frown, the knowledge that Sherlock is now observing him has John trying to maintain an aura of nonchalance while struggling not to tense or give power to the irrational thought that what he’s thinking is blaring in neon across his forehead.

Stealing himself, John meets Sherlock’s gaze with a hard one of his own. John has the sudden sense that they’re both daring the other to do – _say_ …something.

 

John shrugs. _What?_

 

Sherlock suddenly looks unsure, if John didn’t know any better he’d say his expression is almost… _shy_.

 

Sherlock Holmes is _not_ shy.

 

Now John is confused. Sherlock closes his eyes, shakes his head and turns away from John, then looks resolutely out his own window. John frowns in his direction.

 

_What was that?_

 

Julia flicks her gaze between Sherlock and John, grumbling something unintelligible under her breath.

Just when John _also_ considers forgoing the consequences of ejecting himself from a moving vehicle, if only to escape the all too familiar tension, Julia pulls into a walled parking lot with barely enough room on either side for the tiny car to squeeze through. In front of them is a small, three story, stone, apartment complex.

The second the car stops moving Sherlock is out the door. Wary that Julia will attempt to corner John again, he quickly moves to open the car door at his side. Before he can open it however, it is flung open from the other side to reveal Sherlock holding the door open for John’s convenience.

John resists the instinctive reaction to gape in surprise. The cold is biting into his skin already. He pushes himself out of the car, fumbling a little with the cane, and just when he has his footing – cane gripped tightly in hand – and automatically reaches out to close the door, Sherlock does it for him.

John is both miffed, and alright – _touched_ by the gesture. He has no chance to say anything before Sherlock is striding away towards the building entrance.

John shakes off the moment and walks forward. Behind him he hears Julia exit the car and then a small _*beep*_ as it locks.

It hurts a bit to walk, but it’s nothing John can’t handle. When John and Julia reach the entrance, an old style glass door – that appears to have no buzz in system or doorman, Sherlock has it open and is waiting for them.

Julia enters first, already unlocking the inner door with a key from her pocket, John second; stubbornly refusing to look at Sherlock even though he can feel the man’s gaze fixed on him as he passes by, their coats brush together briefly.

 

“Ta.” John mutters absently as he enters the building and hears the whoosh of the door closing shut behind Sherlock, preventing the icy air from entering any further.

 

Julia has the inner door unlocked. With a push she enters into a small lobby (complete with a staircase and an elevator that looks far too old to still be in service…which it isn’t according to a sign in Italian John assumes says something like ‘not in order’), John follows close behind. Sherlock passes them both and John tells himself that the faint pressure he _thinks_ he feels along his lower back, as the Detective passes, is all in his imagination.

 

The man’s long legs carry him up the stairs two at a time.

 

“Hey! I haven’t told you which apartment is mine!” Julia hurries after him.

 

“Second floor, second door to the left and closest to the front of the building.” Sherlock calls out casually in response.

 

“Know it all.” Julia, a step or two above John, mutters.

 

“Oi! Thanks for waiting.” John groans as he begins his somewhat painful ascent up the stairs. Still, no matter how aggravating it is to have another bullet wound, with the memory of his shoulder and all the trauma that caused, he is very much aware that the graze to his leg could’ve been much, much worse.

 

Sherlock is already ahead of them, but Julia does turn around to ask John if he needs any assistance. He refuses but thanks her regardless, he’s just grateful she’s only on the second floor; he can almost feel the still fresh stitches giving him the evil eye as he forces himself through gritted teeth to complete the ascent.

When John and Julia reach the second floor hallway, John only sees a few doors. Sherlock is pacing impatiently in front of the one down to the left and yes, in front of the single window bringing foggy winter moonlight into the hallway. The building appears to be good condition, ordinary and unassuming in appearance both outside and in. John supposes it isn’t a bad place for someone like Julia to hunker down in for a few months.

 

“Hurry, I believe we’ll be expecting some less than desirable company in approximately ten minutes.” Sherlock bounces a bit on his toes.

 

“Chill out, I’m right here.” Julia pulls out her key, sticks it in the keyhole and turns the lock.

 

It is when she does this that John first notices the line of a gun visible through her now open coat.

 

“You’re sure we were followed?” John asks Sherlock as Julia jiggles a bit with the door.

 

Sherlock gives John a look. “Positive. As I said before John, this man is becoming more desperate as time passes; desperation makes people even more idiotic than they already are. He will make the mistake of confronting us directly; no longer caring that we are both in possession of a weapon, and outnumber him three to one.” Sherlock pauses and looks out the hallway window. “Want for money and love are the two desires human nature will continually sacrifice reason and sanity for, it is a constant and _predictable_ pattern.” Sherlock’s attention is distant for a moment, eyes and brow drawn.

 

The way Sherlock says _‘predictable’_ it is clear he is frustrated by that fact, perhaps annoyed.

John can’t deny that Sherlock is right. Though money is not something John has ever had major aspirations for, _love_ …he has enough personal experience with that.

 

John glances up at Sherlock at the thought.

 

The question is unbidden on his lips and out before he has time to rein it in. “Do you count yourself in that pattern?” John is sure Sherlock is going to deny it, perhaps counter with a smart arse comment.

 

However, Sherlock is oddly still for a moment. Right when John is cursing himself for asking such a ridiculous question to _Sherlock_ of all people –

 

“Am I human John?” Sherlock asks, matter-of-fact, facing forward.

 

John is momentarily surprised by the question. “Generally.” He immediately answers. Sherlock appears to be amused by John’s response, but it doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock is decidedly not looking at him.

 

“Contrary to popular opinion, I am not immune to human nature.” Sherlock looks at John once, eyes dark pools that contrast with his pale skin, and then turns away. He doesn’t respond further. John gets the sense he isn’t going to.

 

When John’s heart begins to beat a faster pace, he doesn’t understand why.

 

“Guys?”

 

John looks away from Sherlock and sees that Julia has gotten the door open and is waiting for them to enter, her eyes flick between the two of them with a look far too knowing for John’s comfort.

John nods, posture and mind-sight going to battle, ready like the flick of a switch.

They enter; the only sound is the click of Julia closing the door behind them.

The first thing John notices is the boxes, open, closed and half open. The second thing he notices is that it is smaller than he expected, not that much bigger than the bedsit John occupied before meeting Sherlock. And finally, the third thing he notices is a few plants grouped together on the coffee table in front of the sofa. One of them is a miniature rose plant.

Sherlock’s coat billows around him when he walks over to the pink blossoms. He falls to his knees in front of the table and immediately begins digging through the soil. John has the suddenly amusing image of Sherlock as a bloodhound desperately searching for the bone he buried; it isn’t the first time he has made that comparison.

 

John looks around the flat once more, taking in all the details in preparation for the confrontation that will be happening soon, and then hobbling over to the sofa. He leans against the sofa arm to ease the pressure on his wounded leg, eyes fixed on Sherlock digging through the soil. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Julia adjusting her glasses and then taking out her gun from a holster that had been well hidden by her coat. She purposefully leans against the wall in the most prime position for keeping an eye on the flat door and then proceeds to look over her weapon to make sure it is ready; tension evident in line of her eyes and mouth, yet her hand movements are remarkably calm and sure.

The windows are letting in a surprising amount of moonlight and starlight now that the snowy clouds have dispersed from the sky. John has a good view of the entryway and parking lot from where he’s half-standing, so far there is no sign of this mystery man. He had to have been tailing them in a car; unfortunately John’s position in their vehicle wasn’t best for surveying the road behind them. Even if it were they were on busy streets most of the time. There would’ve been no easy way to tell which was which. Given Sherlock’s confidence that the man has followed them successfully and will find the flat, and consequently them in short order, John assumes Sherlock must have noticed him.

 

Most people would try to get _away_ from a stalker, not purposefully _lure_ them closer.

 

At that thought John’s gaze momentarily draws away from the window and towards Sherlock…at precisely the moment Sherlock pulls a long silvery chain, with some sort of pendant, from the flower pot; the Detective smiles in triumph.

 

Julia is watching with obvious interest.

 

_Of course the bugger was right._

 

The Detective lays the piece of jewellery flat along the surface of his palm; his eyes widen briefly as he examines it, brushing away damp soil from pendant and chain. John moves to stand at Sherlock’s side in order to see it more closely; a simple chain with a large, teardrop shaped silver pendant with something on the front... _huh._

 

“Is that-?”

 

“A flute.” Sherlock murmurs. “The chain is silver in colour, though the metal itself is platinum as is the flute pendant; it is adorned with diamonds as well. Given the size of the pendant, and allowing for variance depending on the exact weight of the diamonds in addition to the cocoon style of the chain itself, I estimate it to be worth approximately between six thousand or ten thousand pounds at the very least.”  Sherlock recites this while examining it further, particularly the pendant.

 

 _Least?_ John whistles. That money may not be considered a fortune to some, but for someone desperate for cash it might as well be a million pounds.

 

“Wow, it must really be special to Anne then if she was desperate enough to hide it like she did.” Julia comments with slightly wide eyes.

 

Sherlock hums noncommittally. He turns over the flute pendant to inspect the back; it is flat and covered almost entirely with etching.

 

“It’s engraved.” John murmurs. “A name? A date?” He guesses.

 

“What does it say?” Julia asks, peering over from her position a few feet away.

 

“A phrase. Italian.” Sherlock answers while pulling his miniature magnifier out from his pocket. He turns to face the window, tilting the necklace closer to the blazing moon and holding the glass a few centimeters above the pendant. “Solo l'armonia di amicizia facilita tutte le difficoltà, e senza questa simpatia non c'è gioia sulla terra.”

 

It is not the first time John has heard Sherlock speak Italian ever since arriving in the country, but there is a soft reverence, tinged with surprise, in the way he utters those words.

 

John opens his mouth to ask the obvious question only to be interrupted by Julia.

 

“Only friendship’s harmony eases all hardships, and without this sympathy  
there is no joy on earth.” She recites with a smile pulling at her lips. “I suppose I should’ve expected that.” Julia adds with a nod towards Sherlock and the necklace.

 

Johns heart begins beating just a little bit faster, unbidden he edges closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock nods, even though he gives no outward appearance to suggest he was listening to Julia at all, his expression is a thoughtful one as he traces the etching with a long finger. He pockets the necklace carefully.

 

“Am I missing something?” John asks.

 

“It is a translation from ‘The Magic Flute’, an Opera by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” Sherlock answers and positions himself in the shadow of the window in front of him; able to view the outside world but not be seen by it.

 

“Huh, ok.” John shrugs with a nod of acknowledgement, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to show how those words have affected him, and having been spoken by Sherlock is just the double whammy.

 

Opera is not his forte, but he has heard of a few of the more popular and famous ones. Until recently he had never actually seen an Opera, nor had any reason to believe Sherlock had either. He wasn’t surprised though when he noticed how enthralled Sherlock got, despite vocalising his boredom afterwards, when watching the multiple ones in The Ring Cycle. Sherlock has always enjoyed music, though John has more often heard him bring it to life upon his violin than listening to it, particularly the classics.

 

John takes a deep breath moves back a few steps to _sit_ on the sofa arm this time.

Sherlock continues his watchful gaze out the window; Julia is still alert in her position by the door as is John on the sofa.

 

They wait.

 

They don’t have to wait long. Barely a minute passes before Sherlock speaks.

 

“He’s here.”

 

Julia and John join Sherlock at the window. He can’t see a car, but the man could’ve simply parked along the street, with the walled in parking lot hiding it from view. Regardless, it is hardly difficult to see him now; he’s not much taller than John, covered head to toe in thick, black winter wear, with the hood pulled up to hide his face. John can see the butt of the gun sticking out of his pocket, right hand on the base.

 

“Kinda hard to tell, but it certainly looks like the man I’ve been seeing, same coat at any rate.” Julia comments.

 

John watches as the man walks a somewhat shaky pace towards the building, looking from side to side, but never up.

 

“He’s not being awfully smart is he?” The question is rhetorical, no one answers besides twin snorts of ‘obviously’ from Sherlock and Julia.

 

Without seeing his face John can’t be certain, but by his physical manner and unsteady walking…the man must be running on pure adrenaline by this, John lays odds that he likely hasn’t slept in days. This fact is only slightly reassuring; it could make subduing him easier, but depending on what happens from this point on it may also turn out to be akin to pushing a wounded, angry animal into a corner; lashing out with nowhere else to go.

Not for the first time John wishes he hadn’t gotten himself shot _again._

 

“How will he know which apartment to go to? Maybe we should head him off, I would really rather not see more people get hurt.” Julia posits as she moves back to her previous position.

 

It’s a good point, and John is about to ask Sherlock this before the man speaks quickly.

 

“There is only one other tenant currently in the building and they are on the floor above you according to the apartment number painted on the parking spot occupied by the only other car in the lot. In all likelihood the rest of the tenants are visiting family for the holidays. Besides, I made sure to walk through a sizeable mud puddle only partly frozen near the front door. This man may be an idiot, but I am sure he will have very little trouble finding us.”

 

John blinks. “Amazing.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker towards John and an amused smile lilts his lips.

 

“I believe you need a new adjective…but thank-you.” The last is uttered quietly.

 

John smirks briefly.

 

Aforementioned man skims around the puddle Sherlock himself mentioned, nearly at the door now and picking up speed.

 

“Dr. Almont, give John your gun.” Sherlock says suddenly and moves away from the window. “You are skilled Julia, however even with a limp; John’s skill with a weapon exceeds your own.” Sherlock explains and moves to stand in front of the table on which the rose plant lies, directly in front of the door. He picks up the plant and moves it somewhere out of sight.

 

John is both surprised and pleased by Sherlock’s praise, limp comment aside. Julia looks like she wants to argue but when the sound of the front door being roughly closed below there is no time to argue.

Julia merely sighs and hands the gun over to John. In his peripheral vision John notices Sherlock release an exhale and some of the tension from his body, as though relieved. John doesn’t have time to think on the reaction however.

The apartment is utterly silent as John moves to where Julia was standing and Julia quickly mirrors his position on the other side of the door. John notices her reach into her pocket and pull out a pocket knife.

They can hear cautious footsteps on the stairs drawing closer as they ascend. John leans the cane against the wall and adjusts his stance accordingly along with a fire ready hold on the gun; he is grateful for the adrenaline surging through his body that alerts his senses and glosses over the painful throbbing of his leg. If this gets physical John might not be much good, but barring any crazy acrobatics, he _is_ still an excellent shot.

The footsteps grow closer, John tenses as does Julia; the latter breathes deep and encloses her grip around the small knife. Sherlock appears utterly calm and John’s heart rate starts to pick up in panic when he notices Sherlock is still entirely within view of the front door, searching for something in the nearly empty kitchen area, if he doesn’t move soon; he will be the first thing this man sees.

John wants to yank the crazy bastard away and almost makes a move to do so. Sherlock stills John with a pointed look and a hand movement; calm, collected and confident. It goes against every instinct surging in John’s body, but with the man bearing down on them now there is no time.

 

 _What the bloody hell is he doing? Not even behind any cover the lunatic…_ John yells inside his head when he notices Sherlock actually crouch in front of the door his hands moving around, the long flaps of his coat fall over them so John can’t see what he’s doing.

 

_Thud, thud, thud…_

 

The footsteps are louder than ever, soon they stop directly behind the closed door. John runs through multiple scenarios in his head. He must know they’re in there, what will be this man’s first move? Will he come in guns blazing? Shoot first ask questions later?

It is no more risky, perhaps less so in some ways, than many other cases Sherlock and he have been on before. Sherlock has a reason for doing everything, every movement he has made and every choice he is making now will have an ultimate purpose. Whatever else is going on with them, John trusts Sherlock, and when you’re in a battle, you have no choice but to trust your allies.

John looks around once more, meeting the gaze of Julia – breathing remarkably steadily, John has the passing thought of wondering how many times she has been in situations like this before – and lastly Sherlock. John breathes a sigh of relief when he notices Sherlock swiftly move out of his crouch and place himself beside the window and against the wall. He looks at John then, and they easily find each other’s gaze in the room illuminated only by moonlight. The two men, in the battlefield storm of criminal intrigue, without the trappings of their personal lives confusing their heads and blinding their hearts, are perfectly in sync in that moment.

 

_Click._

 

John looks down, his fingers automatically tightening around the gun, and sees the doorknob turning. Both Julia and John raise their prospective weapons in anticipation of this man’s entry, currently John is closest and will be in the position most likely to incapacitate this man quickly.

 

Suddenly, as the door begins to creak open slowly, John notices Sherlock make silent, frantic movements with his hands in John’s direction…as though _pushing_ him away. John blinks but obeys the command and backs up a few feet, gun cocked in the direction of the door.

 

Then it happens.

 

Later, John will laugh. Now, John watches the next few seconds as though in slow motion.

John doesn’t even flinch when the door is suddenly kicked open and a man bursts through with his own gun clutched tightly and raised. John is about to make his move when the man appears to slip on something, flails about for a second – unable to achieve steady footing, falls with a loud, pained groan and drops his gun in shock.

 

_What the hell –_

 

Julia looks almost as surprised as John feels. No one hesitates though. Before the man can move, Sherlock collapses and pins the man (already trying to pick himself up) to the ground by the base of his neck as John resists the urge to cry out when he himself falls to the ground (hitting his still mildly bruised knee and pulling his wound in the process), grabs the man’s arms and pins them tightly to his back.

 

 _“Scendo me! Scendo!”_ The man yells out in Italian. John may not understand the words, but the sentiment is clear by the way he struggles. Luckily for them, this man’s adrenaline appears to be draining and it is only somewhat difficult to keep him positioned while Sherlock pulls what looks like zip tie cuffs out of his pocket ( _I swear the man has the oddest things in there sometimes, pretty sure he pulled a bottle of aged human teeth out of there once_ ) and tightens them securely around the man’s wrists.

 

Julia swiftly steps around them and picks up the loose gun; effectively disarming it.

John assumes Julia must flick on the light as well, because for the first time since they entered the flat the entire room is completely illuminated.

 

“I know you speak English, so listen to me very, _very_ carefully.” Sherlock has his head poised close to the ear of the man John still has in his hold; one hand keeping his confined wrists still and the other checking for any other hidden weapons on his person. At Sherlock’s voice, deep and menacing (John’s body shivers involuntarily in response), the man’s protests very quickly quiet. “You are in the presence of three individuals far more skilled and dangerous than your deplorable self.” Sherlock’s face is eerily calm; his eyes flash with emotion that reminds John of when Mrs. Hudson was injured and temporarily held at gunpoint in 221b. John remembers that if Sherlock is right, this man – going by his physical appearance, and what Sherlock deduced about the woman Anne, John guesses this must be her brother – abuses Anne on a daily basis, has terrorized Dr. Almont and is indirectly responsible for John getting shot. “You will remain silent until I say so.”

 

John wonders which of those has Sherlock the most angered.

Then again that could just be because this case wasn’t exactly “stimulating” by Sherlock standards, somehow this seems the most unlikely option to John; true or not.

The man looks genuinely afraid despite the defiance rigid in the tension present throughout his entire body. He does nod however.

 

Even when dealing with the most horrid of people, and they have come across a hell of a lot doing what they do, Sherlock rarely lets his objectivity and detachment from the facts crack. If he feels sympathy for a victim or hatred towards those that have committed the crime, he almost never shows it, to such a successful degree than John has questioned the man’s humanity (like during the bomb case that inevitably led them to Moriarty), wondering if the man is even capable of looking beyond the facts and joy of a puzzle.

 

John doesn’t always remember how _human_ Sherlock really is; a man made up of polar extremes…it is moments like this that remind him.

 

John finds a wallet, and a key. With one hand still keeping hold on the man’s wrists, he reaches out behind him so Julia can take both.

 

“Alastair Moretti.” Julia calls out. “Bastard.” She mutters under her breath.

 

The man’s – Moretti’s eyes flash towards Julia which causes John to automatically slide to the left, thus blocking his view.

 

“You have failed, abysmally so, Mr. Moretti-” Sherlock begins, however at those words Moretti tries to fight back by whipping his head backwards and kicking his legs. John is able to pin the latter down by throwing his body weight on them and Sherlock is barely even thrown by the action. Julia immediately comes over, stance threatening, and makes sure Moretti sees both guns in her hands.

 

“The necklace is _mine-_ ” Moretti grounds out angrily with his face plastered by Sherlock’s hand onto the hardwood floor.

 

“It belongs to your sister.” Sherlock interrupts. _So he is her brother then_. “And it is beyond your reach now.”

 

The man growls, which quickly turns to a whimper when Sherlock puts more pressure on his hold; probably painful at this point.

 

“I - I haven’t done anything to you! I have frie-”

 

Sherlock stops the man’s protests again by covering his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

 

“Oh I have friends too Mr. Moretti, and far more powerful than any pitiful connections you have. I guarantee, no matter what happens now, you _will_ be imprisoned, so unless you want to risk potentially more serious injury and punishment I suggest you cooperate. Nod if you understand me.” Sherlock speaks; his voice imbued with a danger letting Moretti know how pointless further protests will be.

 

Moretti looks beyond furious, but slowly, fighting his defeat, he nods. John is reluctant to let him go, but when Sherlock narrows his gaze at Moretti for a few seconds, takes a deep breath and looks at John positioned awkwardly across Moretti’s body and gives him a nod of his own, John warily pushes himself off and releases his hold on the man below him.

 

John and Sherlock roll the grunting man over and prop him awkwardly up against the closest wall.

 

“There, that wasn’t so difficult.” John states as he slowly, painfully with his throbbing leg, stands up. “I would listen to him if I were you; he once threw a man out of window for harming our land lady…how many times was it?”

 

Sherlock huffs an amused breath. Moretti glares at John and flicks his eyes nervously from him to the taller man.

 

“I stopped counting after three, or four, can’t remember which.” Sherlock shrugs, all too casual as he moves to stand beside John, eyes fixed on the now quivering man on the floor.

 

Moretti looks horrified, and certainly more scared than he had been before.

 

Julia is staring at them with wide eyes and an open mouth.

 

“Is he being serious?” Julia looks to John.

 

“Oh yes.” John had both been shocked and perhaps inappropriately delighted when he found out how Sherlock dealt with the bastard that attacked Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Hell, remind me never to piss him off, or you for that matter. You two are crazier than I am.”

 

John snorts. _I certainly can’t deny that._

 

He gives her a brief smile before focusing his attention once more on Mr. Moretti.

Julia, still off to the side has relaxed her stance somewhat. She puts the disarmed gun down though her hold on the other is still firm and pointed towards the cuffed Moretti.

John makes a move for his cane, but immediately stumbles backwards to grab the side of the sofa when his leg throbs painfully.

Sherlock makes to move to John, as does Julia, both stop when John shakes his head to indicate he is fine. Which he is for now, but soon John will need to rest his leg if it is to heal properly. Sherlock grabs John’s cane, walks over to the Doctor and hands it too him.

 

“Ta.” John nods thanks and grips it tightly in his hand.

 

Sherlock walks a few feet towards Moretti and crouches down in front of him. Moretti might well be pissing himself if the expression on his face is anything to go by.

 

It is almost pathetic.

 

“ _Per favore_ , please, _please_ don’t throw me out the window!” The man speaks shakily, with near bloodshot eyes (which John notices for the first time).

 

Sherlock leans forward slightly; cold eyes darting all over the man’s face and form, deducing who knows what.

Sherlock’s eyes zero in on Moretti’s face. Despite the pain in his leg John keeps a tense stance and a fierce eye on the two men in case Moretti tries _anything._

 

“You’re a middle child, grew up in a wealthy family and largely went by unnoticed from most of the world including your family, especially your mother who favoured your little sister. Your father died before you hit puberty, after which you developed proclivities to addiction and violence. You saw multiple therapists over the years when you lived at home but stopped altogether when you left. You have an addiction to Cocaine, which you developed during your teen years; this significantly impacted your physical and emotional health in an even more detrimental way. You both loved and hated that you were able to get away with being high right under your family’s nose, loved it because it gave you an escape from a world you were growing to hate, and made you feel more alive than you had ever been before-” John clenches a bit here and eyes Sherlock carefully, not liking the lingering edge to Sherlock’s voice. “-and hated it because it proved what you had always known, your family ignored you. This led you to further violence, vandalism, fights at school; oh you got all the attention then didn’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is low, and steady, reciting the story he’s read in the lines and crevices of Moretti’s face and increasingly nervous and shocked expression; practically on the verge of passing out.

 

“Eventually your proclivities lead to your family fortune dwindling to almost nothing over the years. You and your little sister are the only two left in your family. She’s afraid of you; you regularly take your anger and frustration out on her physically and emotionally because out of the three of you, she looks the most like your mother, this has angered you for years and the only reason she hasn’t escaped your vile behaviour is because she believes you’re all she has left, and years of your abuse have made her feel like this is all she will ever deserve. You wanted to sell her necklace, gifted to her by the older sister I presume (the latter of whom died several years ago), because you owe large amounts of money to multiple drug dealers, the resources of your once prominent wealth long since spent. Your sister showed defiance for the first time in a while, which shocked you just enough that when she ran out of your home you didn’t follow until it was too late. Of course she came back later, with a story about losing the necklace…you didn’t buy it did you? No, you got the information out of her the only way that has ever gotten results for you; violence. You hurt her…worse than you ever have before, and even with her injured shoulder she tried to defy you further…but you have her so warped by your own idiotic, cowardly self that she’s convinced herself she’s deserved every hit, every word, everything. Congratulations Mr. Moretti, your mission to make someone hate themselves more than you despise yourself appears to have succeeded.” Sherlock slowly stands up, his whole manner a threatening presence that seems to expand and fill the room. “I hardly think you’re worth the effort of throwing out a window.”

 

Sherlock’s deductions of Moretti ran off with their usual unflinching, brutal speed, only this time John can’t find it in him to feel sorry for this man prostrate on the floor; gawking at Sherlock with wide, scared eyes, heavily breathing and biting his lip so hard it’s bleeding. John may pity the man on the floor, but even so it’s taking everything within John’s limited control to not go over there and fucking punch Moretti. If the look on Julia’s face is anything to go by, she feels the same.

John’s hands are clenching into fists so tight his fingers are tingling from lack of blood flow.

 

“How – this – you – you don’t know anything!” Moretti denies, the shakiness of his voice portraying his doubt, the drooping curls of his dark hair, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, the redness and dilated pupils of his dark green eyes make him appear significantly older than John suspects he actually is.

 

“Ah that’s where you’re wrong Mr. Moretti.” Sherlock pauses and gives the man a once over. “Unfortunately, due to your greed and idiocy, I know far more about you than I will ever care to know.” Sherlock adds, face expressionless, tone dark. He walks away a few steps and pulls out his phone, his long fingers send off a few, short texts. “John?”

 

John swiftly looks up at the sound of his name.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I believe the police are expecting another ‘package’ to be dropped off on their doorstep much like the one earlier this evening.”  Sherlock says with a nod in Moretti’s direction. “I would like to ensure delivery, make a brief stop, and then put this entire evening behind us.”

 

“Amen to that.” Julia breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ll make another call then?” Julia pulls out her own mobile, gesturing it in Sherlock’s direction.

 

John glances between Sherlock and Julia with a frown.

 

“Please do.” Sherlock nods with a smirk.

 

Julia’s face mirrors Sherlock’s own satisfied smile while she dials a number on her phone. She then eyes Moretti on the floor with a disgusted grimace.

 

With the phone to her ear, Julia walks over to John and hands him the loaded gun. _‘Just in case’_ she mouths. He nods gratefully and takes it from her before turning his attention back to Sherlock and Mr. Moretti. Julia walks towards the opposite end of the room, beginning to talk someone in rapid Italian on her phone.

John leans back on the sofa arm and looks up at Sherlock; currently watching Moretti with his arms crossed; expression stony.

 

“Care to explain?” John gestures behind him to where Julia is.

 

“You’re not the only one with influential friends.” Julia calls out after having heard John’s question, quickly resuming her phone conversation.

 

“Dr. Almont has various connections in both law enforcement and the medical profession across multiple countries; it is why she is successful at what she does. After you were shot she contacted an acquaintance with the MPD to ensure that she wouldn’t be implicated in incapacitating him with her own gun, given the fact that I deduced he already has a criminal record and I had my own… _chat_ with him, I highly doubt we’ll be on the receiving end of tedious police policy anytime soon, Dr. Almont as well. As for Mr. Moretti…” Sherlock pauses, Moretti eyes Sherlock nervously; his throat moving in an anxious bob as he swallows. “I anticipate no problems.” Sherlock’s smile is positively chilling.

 

Sherlock can really be bloody terrifying when he wants to be. Moretti actually whimpers and then…passes out; probably due to a combination of adrenaline crash, exhaustion, a tapering off high and Sherlock being a downright scary bastard…still, John has never actually seen Sherlock trigger someone into literally losing consciousness before.

 

 _Well, had to happen eventually._ John has a rather inappropriate urge to laugh.

 

“Alright genius, I have two questions if I may?” John crosses his arms. Sherlock turns away from Moretti with a bemused expression that quickly melts when he looks at John. He nods. “What the hell did you do the _floor?_ ” John asks, barely restraining giggles.

 

It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure that Sherlock put something near the entrance of the door that must have made Moretti slip and fall like he did.

 

“Butter.”

 

John blinks. “Butter?” _Seriously?_

 

“That is what I said.” Sherlock gives an annoyed sigh, but John can easily tell his eyes are shining with amusement. “All in all, remarkably effective. Hmmm, I wonder…” There is a sudden, interested gleam to his eyes that immediately has John bristling…

 

“ _Don’t_ even think about it!” John scolds, elbowing him playfully in his side.

 

“What?” Sherlock looks at him with a pout, _very_ purposefully projecting innocence.

 

John laughs but narrows his eyes dangerously at the Detective. “The last time I saw that look on your face I woke up the next day to find every, _single_ pair of my socks riddled with holes!”

 

Sherlock groans and waves his arms in exasperation. “It was a vital experiment John! How else was I to gauge the corrosive effects of-”

 

 “Why didn’t you use your _own_ bloody socks?” John nearly shouts.

 

“The experiment necessitated natural fiber!”

 

“You couldn’t have bought new ones then?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot John; I needed to know the _exact_ age of the socks in order to properly gauge time and effect-”

 

“It doesn’t matter now, bottom line is, if you want to pour deadly chemicals on clothing, knock yourself out – I _don’t care_ \- just leave me and _my_ _wool socks_ and _any_ of my clothing _alone_!” John cuts him off with firm hand cutting through the air.

 

Sherlock sniffs indignantly.

 

“It wasn’t all your socks, I left you one pair.”

 

John gapes. “It was the joke pair three years ago from Greg, pink with white clouds and fucking candy canes!”

 

Sherlock blinks slowly. “Who?”

 

 _Bloody hell._ John palms his face. “Never mind, just…whatever you’re thinking about, stop it right now. I _will_ throw _all_ your equipment out the window if you start putting butter in random places all over the flat in order to catalogue minor bruising injuries or the effectiveness of John Watson verses buttery kitchen floor or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking.”

 

Sherlock huffs. “I would hardly design an experiment that could potentially injure _you_ -” John snorts here, Sherlock ignores him. “-although it could garner potentially useful information, perhaps Mycroft or Anderson could-”

 

“No.”

 

“But John-”

 

_“No.”_

“ _John_ -”

 

_“Sherlock.”_

 

Sherlock glares petulantly, huffs and leans heavily back onto the sofa arm beside John.

John smiles at the pout on Sherlock’s face. The Detective glowers at him.

This atmosphere is their comfort zone; that feeling of inappropriate “crime scene” hilarity and banter Sherlock and John have always been prone to.

Honestly, John is more amused by that spark of mischief in Sherlock’s eyes than anything, although he was entirely serious about the sock thing. Sherlock knows it to.

 

John sighs. “Fine, I will admit seeing Mycroft tumble on his arse would be hilarious…”

 

Because let’s face it, it would.

 

The scowl melts as Sherlock barks out his baritone laugh. The sound inevitably gives John tingles throughout his body, seeming to center around his chest. The look on Sherlock’s face is so achingly familiar and in that moment John is painfully aware of how little Sherlock has laughed like that lately. John doesn’t have the energy to try and suppress all his own reactions to seeing Sherlock smile, and laugh, like that; especially knowing that _he_ was the one who caused it.

 

And so John finds it all too easy to laugh right along with him.

 

With the light extenuating the angular lines of Sherlock’s face, right now there is only one word John can think of when looking at Sherlock, despite the clawing fears, old anger, long held assumptions and denials desperately trying to put it back… _Stunning._

 

 _Fuck._ John clenches his jaw and takes a steadying breath. _Fuck, not this, not…_

 

The appearance of Julia dissolves the bubble that had temporarily formed around the two men.

 

“You guys are just insane enough to be meant for each other, really.” She looks at them both with incredulous eyes fixed on their laughing faces, lingering a few seconds more on John as though she can read the thoughts permeating his mind…much like Sherlock actually.

 

John stops laughing when words settle in his mind, as does Sherlock; the latter much more efficient at going from peppy to blasé in the blink of an eye. If Sherlock is at all affected by her words he doesn’t show it, beyond a tinge of pink to his cheeks that could be explained away by practically anything.

John coughs and shifts uncomfortably.

Sherlock notices the movement and stares at John for a moment, expression indecipherable. John tenses and looks away.

 

_Hell this is getting uncomfortable very, very quickly._

John finds himself worried how Sherlock will take the comment, most of the time he’s always just ignored them, but the swiftness to which Sherlock’s mood shifted has John feeling nervous.

 

“Mrs. Hudson would probably agree with you.” John jokes in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

 

Julia narrows her eyes. “You don’t?” She asks.

 

 _Oh shit, how the hell am I supposed to answer that?_ John resists the urge to glare at her, mostly because Sherlock would see that.

 

“Of course not.” John refuses to acknowledge the sour feeling in his gut and the locked box inside his mind growing steadily more vulnerable screaming _‘Liar! Liar! Liar!’_ Not to mention the memory of Mrs. Hudson’s insistence on how Sherlock feels about him. Perhaps it is the latter that has John spewing what he says next. “And I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t either, people will always talk, friends and partners in crime right?” John smiles his best nonchalant smile and clasps Sherlock on the shoulder.

 

_Fantastic John, really convincing._

 

John hates an unsolved puzzle almost as much as Sherlock, this swirling pool of emotions in regards to the mystifying Detective has John wanting to sleep for decades and hope he wakes up with a clear head.

 

_Why can’t everything just go back to the way it was? When it all made sense, because…it did, didn’t it?_

 

John is not expecting for the shoulder under his casually resting palm to stiffen the way that it does. He looks at Sherlock, fully expecting the man to agree in his own unique way, he was the one who pretty much implied that people do little else but talk, making assumptions and incorrect observations as they go. John has assumed this is why Sherlock simply ignored people whenever they made assumptions about the two of them, which is what John did…eventually.

 

“The idea that two people are meant to be together is an illusion the sentimental idiots of humanity have bought into. Almost as much as the chemical neurons referred to as “love”, much to the detriment of their minds and society, it has brought more suffering to the world and is the causation of many criminal acts committed. I see no benefit to it. This is a pointless matter to discuss and I would rather not lose more brain cells to this conversation. Dr. Almont I assume that your “friend” is one of the few who knows where you live and is currently on their way here? Yes? Excellent, let’s leave. This idiot isn’t going anywhere.” The last sentence is directed to the passed out Moretti.

 

Sherlock’s voice is severe and biting in a way John hasn’t heard for a long time, the words come out of Sherlock’s mouth like daggers…and John feels every one of them.

Sherlock doesn’t look at John, or Julia, as he leaves the flat _fast_ – neatly sidestepping the buttery floor. He might as well have run out the door.

John lets his arm drop from where it had been frozen in the air after falling from Sherlock’s shoulder when the Detective abruptly exited.

 

 _What the_ _fuck?_

 

Sherlock’s words are hardly a surprise to John. Though John would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a certain…sadness because of them. He’s sure more than ever that Mrs. Hudson _must_ be wrong, just wishful thinking on her part ( _and not yours? Shut up mind_ ). The way Sherlock spoke though…John wants to run after Sherlock and…and…John doesn’t know, see if he’s alright?

 

All he knows is that something was off with the way Sherlock acted.

 

John is confused to say the least.

 

Julia loudly exhaling breaks the eerie silence. John forces his gaze away from the wide open door and looks at her. She is staring at him…obviously angered.

 

“The saddest part is, only a person who has experienced love would protest something in the way he did. Surely you must realize that.”

 

John’s hackles rise in defense.

 

“Listen, I know you care about Sherlock, but seriously _enough_ of this. You don’t know me, and you hardly know him for that matter.” John insists, meeting her angry gaze with one of his own.

 

Julia laughs bitterly. “You’re right Dr. Watson, I don’t know you. However, given what I’ve seen, I clearly know him _far_ better than you do. That man just spouted bullshit known only to those who have ever had their heart broken, and it was hardly coincidence all that came gushing out right after what you said. You know what has to happen in order to have a broken heart? You have to love first. That man is brilliant, but he is also an inexperienced child who has been dropped in the middle of ocean with no idea how to swim – you can thank my mother for the cheesy metaphor, but I think it applies here. I don’t know what excuses, fears or denials you’ve got rolling around in that head of yours, but you have got to let them go before they destroy _both_ of you.” Julia takes a deep, unsteady breath. Her eyes are boring into John’s with intense fire.

 

John wants to scream, he wants to shout at her _‘how dare you!’ ‘who the fuck do you think you are?!’_ , he wants to walk away and dismiss her words, he wants to _hit_ something.

Instead, John finds himself frozen as he stands there; staring, heart pounding, breathing heavily, clenching both of his fists as Julia’s passionate, personal words echo loudly in his mind…impossible to ignore. There is so much he wants to say, half of which he doesn’t know what it _is_ , and all this is driving him crazy.

John closes his eyes and attempts to take a deep, steadying breath, trying to rein in that pressure cooker he can feel about to explode _. I’ve tried, I’ve tried…Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

 

At John’s silence, Julia rolls her eyes and sighs; wiping a palm across her tired face. She walks out of his line of sight; John assumes she’s leaving as well.

 

“Close the door on your way out, and don’t wallow for too long.”

 

Julia steps further away. With her words repeating themselves on a continuous loop inside his head, he realizes she is right about at least one thing:

 

_“The saddest part is, only a person who has experienced love would protest something like that the way he did.”_

 

“Wait.” John calls out to her, the pounding in his head almost outweighs the pounding in his leg as he turns to face the other Doctor. Julia is currently standing in the doorway, waiting for John to speak, her arms crossed. “This isn’t just about you caring for Sherlock is it? This is about you. You’ve…” John squeezes his eyes shut; battling with his own self. Having a lot of anger is more than a little exhausting.

 

_Don’t be a coward John Watson. Come on, come on, and admit it. Admit and **mean** it. _

_I can’t! I can’t! It isn’t, it can’t be, **this** can’t be true it doesn’t make sense! I’m not gay!_

_Bisexuality is a real thing you know, stop using that excuse, no one is buying it anymore…not even yourself. Stop lying to yourself, aren’t you tired of lying? You know exactly why you and Sherlock have been having trouble don’t you? You just don’t want to admit it. You’re afraid. You hate that you’re afraid. You don’t want to get burned again. Coward. Coward. Coward._

_He’s bloody Sherlock Holmes! Ultimate cold fish, he doesn’t…_

_Liar. You’re letting your own fears; assumptions and anger get in the way of the facts. **You** have the facts. Deduce._

 

That last one sounds suspiciously like Sherlock.

 

Sherlock…. _Sherlock, what have you done to me?_ _Fuck, I really am screwed._

 

John forces himself to continue from where he left off. “You’ve been in my, my position before.” He tries to sound in control, with the army, years of being a doctor, and daily occurrences of expecting the unexpected while living with Sherlock under his belt, he almost succeeds in creating calm at the center of this storm.

Julia squeezes her eyes shut for a moment as though fighting back tears. She looks at John, more sympathetic than she had been a moment ago.

 

“Yes. I didn’t…I don’t…I wouldn’t wish the feeling of perpetual regret on anyone. I’m sorry, just, please John…” She opens her mouth as though to speak more, but she shakes her head and quickly leaves the flat in much the same way Sherlock did.

 

John walks forward, intending on leaving as well, his movements robotic at best. When he reaches the doorway, he takes a deep breath and punches his fist _hard_ into the doorway.

 

“ _Fuck!_ ” He screams through gritted teeth. John isn’t even sure if the sentiment is from the pain in his body or the pain…everywhere else.

 

Why is it that the saying goes ‘your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die’?

John sure as hell isn’t dying, but beneath the tense, controlled façade he is exuding in his posture and face, it feels like a dam has broken…like everything he thought, everything he was so sure of, never truly existed. In a twisted way it reminds him of when he discovered Mary, his wife, wasn’t who he thought she was. His whole life and what he believed it was going to be, everything was turned up on its head.

And now, John Watson isn’t who he thought he was. Yet, this time, there is one, fundamental difference…how he’s feeling right now, the closest comparison he can come up with is the first time he rode a rollercoaster. It felt like it went on forever, rickety, twisting, turning, upside down and right side up, never stopping, he never admitted it but he was terrified, and then…it finally stopped. John had gotten off and stood still, mind dizzy and feeling sick to his stomach, but finally, blessedly he was on steady ground where he belonged.

_This feeling…you recognize this feeling, don’t you?_

_No, not this feeling._

_But you know what it is don’t you?_

_You love him._

_He’s my best friend._

_And he’s something else…isn’t he?_

_…yes. Oh god._

 

John has always been drawn to where danger lays, the thrill and intoxication of it, even when he tried to settle down in a normal life. Sherlock Holmes is, and always has been, the most central point of dangerous John has ever experienced. Not just because of what he does, but because of who he _is_ ; a person John could never fully separate from, even when he was angry, even when he thought the man was dead.

John always wondered how a single person could have such an intense hold over him.

 

In the depths of his mind, and heart, John can admit that it scared him as much as it frustrated and thrilled him.

 

Has that been John’s fear? Sherlock, having _that_ much power over him? It wasn’t always, John is sure, but after Sherlock faked his suicide…it changed, John changed, John realized _exactly_ what the Detective meant to him and tried to forget, _move on_ for his own sake. Not Sherlock, there is no way in hell John could ever forget him short of amnesia, just…forget what could’ve been and what never could be. He never said it out loud, Ella encouraged him to but he just couldn’t. And when Sherlock came back…well, John snapped. What Sherlock did almost killed John; if it happened again…John isn’t sure he would survive losing Sherlock a second time.

John has an addiction to danger and has never shied away from a path just because it was dangerous. The ironic thing is, John knew then, and knows now, being in love with Sherlock is the most dangerous thing anyone or… _John_ could ever do. It is the one danger; throughout his life with Sherlock, that he studiously avoided and pretended didn’t exist, _couldn’t_ exist. He hid behind doors, walls, cloaks of almighty heterosexuality, all to protect himself. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock seems to have pulled a blitzkrieg into John’s heart, in more ways than one.

 

John isn’t even going to touch how Sherlock may feel right now.

 

John already feels as though he’s going to explode any minute. He’ll think about that…and _this_ , all this, later. First he has to somehow survive a car ride with Sherlock and Dr. Almont and who knows what after, all while settling himself to the fact that he loves Sherlock in a way he fought to deny and control…and always has.

 

_Everyone’s been **right.**_

 

Thoughts, feelings and wants that had been locked firmly (or perhaps not so firmly) away in that Pandora’s Box inside his head have been unleashed and are pulsating in his blood and thoughts; a jumble of _I’m_ _doomed. Kiss. Hold. Together. Pain. Never. Always. Love. Love. Love. **Love.**_ Amazing, fantastic and brilliant are given new layers of meaning. That impulse of reaching over and casually brushing a curl away from that porcelain face, the heat John would feel and disregard when Sherlock would casually stroll out of his bedroom naked after a rare long sleep, without a care for the fact that his nude arse was currently on display, and how John had cried when Sherlock gave that speech at his wedding, not just because he was moved…but because he found himself so deeply _sad._

 

Sherlock Holmes has ingrained himself into John’s mind and being in a way no one or nothing ever has. 

 

_Shit…what do I do now?_

 

John has no idea where to go from here.

He does know that now is not the time to have a mini-breakdown. The night isn’t over yet.

John breathes deeply, _steady John, steady_ , jaw and fists clenching, leg, heart and hand throbbing; all for different reasons.

With a final nod and steadying breath, hoping Sherlock won’t see his face and immediately knowing what just happened, John leaves Julia’s flat – bypassing the unconscious Moretti and butter laden floor – and closes the door behind him.

 

As he makes his way through the building, cane in hand, the throbbing of his leg reminds John of the moment not even two hours ago when he had been shot and how Sherlock had reacted.

 

Suddenly the moment where Sherlock rested his forehead to John’s, and tenderly, just for a moment brushed his nose against his, feels more significant somehow.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_It took them twenty minutes to arrive at the home of Alastair and Anne Moretti. During which Sherlock and John were completely silent and Julia went from thanking Sherlock to telling them stories of her work…at the time John thought it was a pretty obvious attempt to fill the awkward silence of the car, but he was grateful for it._

_He also went from being grateful for Sherlock’s silence, which gave him time to think and acclimatize. However the fact that Sherlock didn’t look at him once, or acknowledge him beyond a passive grunt when John asked if he was all right (among other things John had been trying to figure out what exactly he said that may have triggered Sherlock to retreat the way he did). The whole drive had John feeling even more out sorts. It wasn’t like the behaviour was completely uncharacteristic of Sherlock, but it felt…odd for the current moment, considering how Sherlock had been acting around John all evening._

_On the plus side it gave John plenty of opportunity to watch him without being noticed._

_For some reason John had thought once he saw Sherlock again there would be some major change and everything would feel different. It didn’t though, not really. This made John realize that he had been feeling **all** of this already, viewing Sherlock through every facet of his emotions for the man, but just hadn’t consciously been aware of it or thought it was something else._

_With Sherlock in his sights, it also became difficult not to think about what Sherlock had said before rushing out of the flat, and the point Julia made afterwards._

_Maybe it was pathetic, but one thing John could not stop thinking about was how Sherlock would ruffle his hair – either with one hand or two – when thinking, frustrated or simply out of habit. It had been a bizarre and random thought to have, but it was an adorable one. John then had the amusing thought of calling Sherlock that to his face one day just to see and record his reaction for future posterity._

_Regardless, even with all that, John was able to keep a relatively tight hold on the feelings and questions running rampant inside him while they drove to the Moretti house; courtesy of Alastair Moretti’s wallet, which Julia mentioned she would be giving to her “friend” in the MPD later._

_Sherlock had said they were returning Anne’s necklace, the ‘and to check on her’ was unspoken but heard by both Julia and John none the less._

_John felt proud of Sherlock when he made the choice to check on her, and return the piece of jewellery to Anne Moretti himself instead of enlisting someone else to do it. It was just one of many small ways Sherlock evolved, not changed; he’s still the same bastard he always was, just simply…more._

_When they pulled up to the somewhat dilapidated, rectangular brick house Sherlock had watched the front for a minute; Julia and John waiting silently in the car with him. At first glance it looked empty; curtains drawn, no light visible._

 

_“She’s here.” Sherlock said._

_John raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Sherlock turned around then, looking at John for the first time since Julia’s flat. John heard it as soon as the words left his mouth, he didn’t need Sherlock to verbally call him an idiot; the look on his face did it for him. “Never mind, forget I asked.”_

_Sherlock turned away again; he no longer looked at the house but was facing forward. John was in the backseat again, and from where he had been sitting was unable to see Sherlock’s face._

_Julia wasn’t saying a word, her fingers tapping a habitual rhythm against the steering wheel. She had been giving John pointed looks every once in while through the rear view mirror, which John had so far been ignoring._

_“How’s your leg?”_

_John didn’t register it was Sherlock who asked the question for a moment, because of that he didn’t answer right away and glanced at Sherlock with surprise. With Sherlock giving him the cold shoulder for the past nearly half an hour, hearing that rare tone of genuine concern threw John for a loop. He was suddenly reminded of when Sherlock asked ‘are you alright?” after John had shot the cabby all those years ago._

_And with his newly realized feelings for the man on repeat in his head, the moment when Sherlock was at his side after being shot, it all felt significant…like there was something else John had yet to figure out, some fact or sign right in front of his nose._

_Sherlock turned around again when John didn’t answer; face blank, but his eyes were flicking from John’s face to John’s leg and back again._

_It took more effort than John thought it would to not squirm with those laser eyes focused on him._

_John sighed, and using the convenient excuse Sherlock gave him to avert his gaze and so he leaned down to roll up his trouser leg._

_(With his attention distracted John didn’t notice Sherlock grasp the door handle in a tense, white knuckled grip as he watched John check his wound. Julia did though…)_

_John half-expected to see the wound bleeding again or the stitches pulled a part, given all the movement. However it wasn’t bleeding and the stitches were still secure; beyond some minor swelling – which was to be expected – the graze itself seemed fine. John sighed gratefully._

_“I’m fine Sherlock. Julia did an excellent job.” He gave Sherlock an affirming nod and rolled his trouser leg back down. It was mostly true, John being fine that is. It’s a throbbing pain John is familiar with, still the near running around hasn’t helped._

_“You don’t need to tell me, I know I’m the stitches queen.” Julia turned around and smiled at John; teasing._

_John snorted. “What was it you said about being humble?”_

_Julia rolled her eyes. “Oh shut up.”_

_John laughed under breath, but smiled and nodded at her as well, all the while thinking that Sherlock wasn’t the only man who could switch moods at the drop of a hat; there was no trace of anger in Julia’s voice._

_It is then John noticed that Sherlock’s focus was frozen on where John’s leg had been exposed. His eyes appeared almost glazed over; face tense, like he was looking through John, his mind elsewhere, lost somewhere in that vast mind palace of his._

_“Sherlock?” John frowned and waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing. “Sherlock!”_

_John’s raised voice sparked a reaction out of him. Sherlock jumped minutely as though shocked. He looked at John. John had the instinctive feeling that it was very, very important to not look away._

_Sherlock appeared almost puzzled with the way John was staring at him, dark curls falling over his forehead._

_“Are **you** alright?” John finally asked, eyeing Sherlock carefully._

_Sherlock blinked, and the expressionless mask fell back into place. He straightened up in his seat._

_“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock huffed. Well, it wasn’t a strict no or yes. John sighed. “Dr. Almont, come with me.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock opened the door and stepped out._

_“Oi! Are you’re expecting me to just sit here?” John yelled before Sherlock could move away._

_That was so not happening! And why?_

_John thought he heard an exasperated sigh before Sherlock leaned back in for a moment._

_“Your assistance is unnecessary, I highly doubt anyone but Anne herself is at home. We’ll only be a moment.”_

_“But-” John tried to protest but the slam of Sherlock’s car door cut John off firmly. He growled. “Arse.”_

_Even though Sherlock was convinced Anne was home, there was no guarantee that she was alone, something could go wrong. John sure as hell didn’t want to be sitting on his arse in a car while Sherlock went into a strange place. John hates feeling useless, but he hates doing nothing while others go into an unknown situation even more._

_John may have been overreacting, but basically being told by Sherlock to stay put got his back up._

_“You are a Doctor John, and I know that you know that you really shouldn’t put more stress on that leg. Its fine now, but the stitches are still fresh. Quite frankly I’m amazed they’re still holding what with you throwing yourself on butter toppled criminal delinquents.” Julia hadn’t left the car yet, but she did have her hand on the handle ready to leave, at that moment though she had her attention on John._

_“I thought you were the stitch queen.” John unconsciously rubbed his thigh. “Besides, I’d rather need a re-stitching than have that lunatic-” John gestured a pointed thumb at the Detective impatiently waiting outside. “-put himself in harm’s way, and he knows that. I’m not a bloody dog.” John grumbled and went to open the door._

_A feminine hand gently grabbed his wrist, effectively stopping him._

_Julia smiled. “Even us crown wearers topple every now and then. As for Sherlock, I think he’s just worried about you. He practically turned to stone when he saw your leg.” Julia gave John’s wrist a squeeze._

_Looking at her face then, John had the brief thought that if circumstances were different he might’ve been interested in pursuing her._

_“Sherlock doesn’t-” Julia raised a slow eyebrow and John stopped the old retort. He had been about to say, ‘Sherlock doesn’t worry’, but that wouldn’t have been true. Sherlock may not openly show it, or share it, but Sherlock does worry, perhaps not often but it does happen._

_It would also be just like Sherlock to cloak his real reason for an action in the guise of something else, especially if it were sentimental in nature._

_John smacked his head against the car seat and groaned, mostly because his traitorous leg had chosen that moment to flare up with pain. With the adrenaline of the case receding, the condition of his leg had been thrown more into the light. Honestly John would’ve liked nothing more than to take a long, hot bath, but…John looked at Sherlock again; the man practically vibrated with energy, seemingly unaffected by the cold spiking outside, in any moment he would be banging on the car._

_Julia let go of John’s wrist, looked at Sherlock and then back at John._

_“You still have my gun?” John wasn’t thrown by the question for long. He nodded and took it out of his coat. He held it out to her and she took it with a firm grip. “Wait here.”_

_Julia exited the car, walking around to the other side and moving to stand in front of Sherlock. John had been about to leave himself, no matter what Sherlock or Julia said, but the sight of Julia talking to Sherlock gave him pause. He couldn’t hear what they were saying beyond the muffled sounds of both their raised voices._

_Sherlock waved his arms a bit and Julia just stood there looking unimpressed. She said something then that caused Sherlock’s movements to still abruptly. He was practically glaring at her, and Julia merely continued to stand there unconcerned; although the expression on her face would indicate she had triumphed at something._

_Julia held out her palm, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock didn’t say or express anything as he mechanically reached into his pocket and pulled out…the necklace? John frowned for a moment, but then Sherlock dropped the necklace into Julia’s palm. She walked around him and headed towards the Moretti house._

_John’s expression cleared as he got that Julia obviously intended to go herself and Sherlock, impossibly, agreed. John didn’t know whether to be concerned or impressed by his acquiescence (he must have had a good reason for it)._

_Outside John’s window, he saw Sherlock take a breath, and on the exhale it swirled in the air much like smoke out of his mouth. John had the passing thought of wondering how badly Sherlock was craving a cigarette._

_John was about to open the door and ask what the hell was going on, but then Sherlock re-opened the front passenger door and stiffly resumed his seat, closing the door behind him with a slam. He immediately put upon a posture of deep thought, the entire line of his body sinewy and straight, his bare hands folded in front of the closed off expression on his face, Sherlock may as well have been screaming ‘don’t talk to me’._

_“Well?” John leaned backed in his seat. He looked outside to check on Julia, she was at the door and knocking._

_There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock took an audible breath._

_“Dr. Almont pointed out that with Anne’s history of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of her brother, a man such as me approaching her would not be conducive. And since she has personally already met her, Anne would most likely feel more at ease with Dr. Almont giving the necklace back to her and explaining what happened. I conceded to her point.” Sherlock recited. John nodded, alright, makes sense, with that in mind John feels a little bit better staying in the car. Still… “Given the closed off nature of the house, and what little I know of Anne, I doubt she will feel comfortable inviting a stranger of any kind into her home. We should be able to observe the interaction between Dr. Almont and Anne from here, Julia won’t be let into the house beyond the front door.” Sherlock added the last in answer to John’s unspoken question._

_“Huh, alright.” John nodded in acknowledgement and looked back over to Julia, noticing that the door has now opened a crack; even from a distance John can see half of a young woman’s face, long, curly black hair spilled through the open crack of the door. Beyond that John could make out very little, except that when the young woman – Anne presumably – saw who it was she opened the opened the door a bit wider._

_A moment passed as John continued to watch the two women talking, and then it suddenly occurred to John the situation he was in._

_Alone. In the car. With Sherlock._

**_Alone_ ** _with **Sherlock** for the first time since biting the ‘I’m so in love with the bloody git its embarrassing’ bullet._

_Fuck. With how she’d acted up until then, John didn’t think it so far out of the realm of possibility that Julia didn’t make the choice to go out there alone **just** because of the reason Sherlock gave. _

_She did say something earlier about locking the pair of them in a room._

_John finally understood why._

_Regardless, John quickly became aware of the fact that Sherlock and he were alone, very, **very** aware of it._

 

_John turned his focus away from Julia for a moment to look at Sherlock; the coat collar of his Belstaff was turned up – a sight John resisted the urge to laugh at – and his hair was falling over the edges of it slightly, hiding his neck and curve of his ear. His eyes, a fiery universe of their own, were closed. From where John was sitting he couldn’t really see the rest of Sherlock’s face._

_For a brief moment, John wondered what Sherlock’s reaction would be if John told him how he felt. Despite what both Julia and Mrs. Hudson have said, John doubted it would go over well. In John’s mind at that moment, he hypothetically wondered that if Sherlock did return his feelings, would the man even admit it? Would he even want to pursue it? Sherlock practically makes a living out of casting aside the irrationalities (according to him) of human nature and disregarding nearly everything that doesn’t involve the Work._

_And then, John had a horrible thought that caused him to feel chilled despite the warmth of the car. What if…maybe he already knows? The past several months of bizarre tension, and distance, flashed through John’s mind and he started wondering if this could be the reason why Sherlock has been cautious and wary around John when they’re not on a case. Had he observed John’s feelings all this time even when John didn’t fully realize them himself? Did it make him uncomfortable and unsure about how to act around John? Sherlock may be inexperienced when it comes to emotion, but he is the most observant man – aside from Mycroft – on the planet._

_Oh god._

_John placed his hands palm down on his thighs, stroking them to both distract himself and wipe away the clammy feeling._

_John breathed in deeply through his nose, desperately trying not to panic or do something stupid like ask the man directly._

_Yeah, that wouldn’t be uncomfortable at **all.**_

_Maybe this was another reason John never wanted to admit how he felt even if only to himself. It wasn’t just a question of does Sherlock return his feelings, but will he?_

_Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck do I do? John asked himself. Don’t overreact, that would be a good start._

_“You’re doing that thing again.”_

_John felt like he’d been shocked when he suddenly heard Sherlock mutter from the front seat._

_John whipped his head around to face him. Sherlock hadn’t moved, but his eyes were now open._

_John sighed, ignoring the fast beating of his heart. “What thing?”_

_Sherlock waved a hand casually in John’s direction. “That thing, where you think. It’s distracting.”_

_“I can’t exactly turn my brain off genius.”_

_Sherlock hummed. “Shouldn’t be that difficult for you.”_

 

_John blinked. “Do you have a newspaper up there?”_

_Sherlock swiftly turned to look at John, clearly surprised by John’s out of the blue question. “What?”_

_John crossed his arms. “You know, a newspaper, ink printed on paper detailing local and world events-”_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I know what a newspaper is. I meant what-”_

_“Do I want one for?” John asked, a bit gleeful he’d managed to irritate Sherlock. “To smack you with of course, what else?”_

_Sherlock blinked slowly and his jaw dropped, indignant, very much akin to a fish._

_A few seconds passed._

_John laughed, and just like that, the awkward tension dissolved for a moment. Sherlock wasn’t laughing. In fact he returned to his ‘ignoring the world around me’ pose while facing the front of a car, but John could see the edge of a faint smile quirk Sherlock’s mouth._

_It was still uncomfortable as hell, but laughing with Sherlock, even if only for a moment, made John feel a little better…he wondered how long **that** would last. _

_John looked out the window. Julia was still talking, but Anne had a hand (the one not in a sling) on her face – now holding the necklace, and she was crying. Julia then leaned forward and wrapped a gentle arm around her, which Anne seemed to accept._

_Just as the awkward silence started to seep in again, John heard a loud sound in the distance. A clock chimed, over and over again, signalling the twenty fifth of December._

_John sighed and rested his head against the car seat, suddenly feeling…melancholy. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Julia pulling away and Anne smiling as she put the necklace back on._

_John looked at Sherlock again, wishing for a moment that the right choice, the right course, was clear and John could soldier through with the assurance he wasn’t making a mistake._

_Not bloody likely._

_Still, this is Sherlock, not Mary. Both betrayed him, but their intentions were as disparate as the poles. John admitted to himself that the way he cares for Sherlock surpasses anything he felt for Mary. Sherlock ultimately caused him the greater pain of the two and now John knows why. The pain was greater, because Sherlock held more of his heart, even then._

_John looked to Sherlock again, his expression pensive._

 

_Where do we go from here? John asked inside his mind. He sighed and forced himself to look away from the man he…the man he loves. Even saying that in his own head sounded so surreal in a way, but he knew, with every painful fiber of his being, that it was the truth._

_“Happy Christmas Sherlock.” John said after the twelfth chime, voice quiet and flat._

 

_Silence. John heard Sherlock move a bit in his seat._

_“You too, John.” Sherlock uttered, barely audible even within the confines of the car._

_John looked out to see Anne and Julia still conversing. A few houses down John could see Christmas lights decorating a few windows and archways, the sight reminded him of Christmas in 221b, and Christmas last year._

_So much happened that day, everything changed. Sherlock made mistakes, killed a man to protect John and his family, an action that nearly caused him to be exiled which later – John eventually found out – would have led to his death._

_That moment on the tarmac…it was one of those moments where everything and nothing was said._

_Suddenly, watching as Anne closed the door and Julia wrapped her coat tighter around herself while walking back towards the car, John found he wanted to say one of those things he never said._

_It was Christmas after all._

_“Thank-you.”_

_John could practically feel Sherlock tense._

_“For what?” Sherlock asked, he sounded genuinely confused._

_For asking me to move in you, for saving my life, over and over again, for giving me purpose, for bringing adventure to each and every day, for not giving up on me, for all that wedding crap I know you hated doing, for protecting and saving me when you didn’t have to, for being a socially constipated arse, just…for being you._

_John didn’t say all that._

_“Everything.” John didn’t mean for that to come out sounding as breathless as it did._

_Julia was almost at the car before Sherlock responded._

_“No thanks needed, John.”_

_John looked at Sherlock._

_To his surprise he found Sherlock already looking at him, neck twisted awkwardly in his seat. He seemed completely serious; he obviously meant what he said literally._

_John shook his head. Sherlock crunched his eyebrows at the motion._

 

_John didn’t even think about it, he reached out and clasped Sherlock on the shoulder. It didn’t even occur to John that it was something he hadn’t done for months._

_Sherlock tensed underneath the touch, but he relaxed just as quickly. His mouth parted in surprise._

_“Seriously, thank-you.” John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder once._

_It was then John became aware of how he had leaned forward in the process of reaching toward Sherlock._

_John gulped. It took everything in John’s power not to look at Sherlock’s lips._

_Back away! Back away! Back away! A part of John was screaming._

_Sherlock must be a magnet, why else wasn’t John moving?_

_Sherlock wasn’t moving either. Why wasn’t he…?_

_And then…Sherlock moved. John watched as Sherlock lifted a hand, and rested it on John’s gloved one for a moment. He never looked away from John once._

_“You’re welcome.” Sherlock spoke, his deep, hot breath bathing Johns face._

_Fuck._

_John forced a casual smile. “There, that wasn’t so hard was it?” John patted Sherlock’s shoulder, dislodging Sherlock’s hand in the process, and leaned away. He coughed awkwardly and settled himself back in his seat, cursing himself for reddening like a teenage girl._

 

_John heard Sherlock move back to his previous position._

_Great, good work John. What was it you said about not wanting things to be uncomfortable?_

 

_Suddenly the driver’s side car door opened._

_“It’s fucking freezing out there! I’m sorry for interrupting whatever moment you two were having, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Anne told me to thank-you both, I gave her my number in case she needed anything, but she insisted she would be fine. Told me the necklace was a gift from her sister before she died. Anne said she was sad about her brother, but I’m pretty sure she was more relieved than anything. Anyway, it’s all over now. You guys are officially my favourite peeps.” Julia shivered and quickly closed the door behind her. “So, what did I miss?” She asked with a smile, looking between Sherlock and John._

_John rested his head in his hands, resisting the urge to groan or…hit something._

_Coward._

 

John opens his eyes.

He had dreamed about the moment where he could’ve said ‘to hell with it’ and kiss Sherlock. It seemed to play on repeat while he slept.

When John awoke in their hotel room on Christmas morning John had begun running through the entire car ride and ensuing… _moment_ , determined to make sense of it all, with the benefit of a good night’s sleep.

Now, after basically reliving it, the only thing John realizes is that his sleep wasn’t all that good. Sherlock and he never spoke a word to each other after Julia helpfully dropped them off at the hotel; with a promise to call the next day and wish them a proper Merry Christmas. They had walked through the building, and rode the elevator up to their floor in complete silence.

The silence continued into the room itself. Sherlock then divested himself of his scarf and coat, and proceeded to throw himself prostrate onto the sofa; eyes closed with hands resting on his abdomen.

The Detective didn’t move in the entire time it took John to bathe, take some painkillers, change and do his teeth. When John chanced a look out into the sitting area of their suite, Sherlock was in the exact same position John left him in; probably not asleep, more likely lost in his mind palace somewhere.

 

John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock turned out to still be there by the time John gets up from bed.

 

John supposes it was only fitting that he and Sherlock rung in the holiday with a case, and _not_ a long night at the Opera or singing carols, maybe going to a midnight Church service like when John was a boy, you know, be regular people.

He is pretty sure getting shot and involved in a case with Sherlock Holmes, and in the course of the evening realizing that the bloody sock murdering lunatic has wormed his way through self-imposed standards of heterosexuality and years of denial to burrow himself deeply heart and mind without your permission, is not normal Christmas Eve tradition.

 

Does John wish things were different? Would he trade the insanity and unpredictability of life with Sherlock Holmes for a normal, predictable one? Hell no.

 

With the murky fog (pain both mind and body) from the evening before now lifted, If there is one thing John has realized; it is that if the consequence of knowing Sherlock Holmes, living in that battlefield, means falling in love with him…John can live with that. Whether anything comes of it or not, Sherlock is his best friend, nothing will change that. John won’t let it, if there is a second thing the evening previous has cemented for him, that fact is it.

If Sherlock somehow knows, or finds out, about the nature of John’s feelings for him (the prospect has John feeling sick in a way he hasn’t since school and wanted to ask Rachel Turner out on a date), John is determined to ultimately not let it wreck their friendship. John can live without loving Sherlock the way a part of him has always wanted to, he _can’t_ – or rather, doesn’t want to even try - life without Sherlock’s friendship. No matter how infuriating the bastard is on a daily basis.

John is grateful that sleeping, however restless, has brought some clarity. It will make going forward easier, not to say that it _will_ be easy, but perhaps less treacherous than before and well…John will take it. It could still be like walking through a minefield, but the difference is he won’t be blindfolded this time.

According to the clock on the nightstand, it is nearly 10:00am. The door between the bedroom and sitting room is closed, but the ivory curtains donning the floor to ceiling windows are drawn back; cold, morning light illuminates the entire room. With the snow dotting city rooftops; it is quite a picturesque sight.

 

John uses his elbows to manoeuvre himself to a sitting position.

 

“Shit.” John curses as the movement brings a pulse of pain from his leg. Once the adrenaline had worn off completely, John felt the full effects of a gunshot wound, no matter that it was only a graze. It isn’t as bad as the night before though, all the ibuprofen probably having something to do with that.

 

He shakes it off and reaches across the nightstand for his mobile. The white, ragged material of his undershirt pulls tight as his body twists.

It is possible he may delaying leaving the bed ( _shut up_ ), but John has a legitimate reason for checking his mobile.

 

It is Christmas after all.

 

After his mobile is turned on it pings with a text and notices three voice messages.

 

The text is from his sister:

 

_Happy Christmas Johnny, try not to get yourself into too much trouble today – HW_

 

John sighs. Their relationship has been strained for years, beyond perfunctory hellos on significant holidays they rarely talk. That hasn’t really changed since Harriette came and talked to him at Sherlock’s behest, but the seed for possible future change had been planted never-the-less.

 

As John looks at the words written to him by his sister, he understands that Harriette has taken the first step, and is waiting for John to make the next move.

 

He’s a bit tense as he responds, but once it’s sent, he ultimately feels relieved.

 

_Happy Christmas Harry, and it’s too late for that. Could we talk in a few weeks? – JW_

 

There, step taken. _Mum would be proud._

 

With a tap John brings up the voice messages. He leans back against the wall and rests the phone against his ear.

 

The first is from Mrs. Hudson.

 

_“Happy Christmas dear! I do hope you and Sherlock are alright and taking care of yourselves, don’t think you’ll get past inspection when you come back home! I wish I could say more, but Mrs. Turner is helping me prepare for a party and I think I may have made a mistake putting her in charge of the punch, honestly! Anyway, give Sherlock a hug and a kiss for me, bye bye dear!”_ John can practically hear the devious smirk in her voice with those last words.

_As if._ John can’t help but smile though, it is nearly impossible to feel down around someone like Mrs. Hudson.

 

The next message is from Greg.

 

_“Hello John, I can’t believe our resident genius managed to sweep you away to Italy for Christmas. I didn’t think the bugger had it in him to be that romantic-”_ John had left Greg a message before Sherlock and he left for Milan, so Greg knows very well what they’re here for. John rolls his eyes and snorts at Greg’s teasing tone, the two of them have always been casual friends. However Lestrade and John have grown closer, going on weekly pub dates, over the last year; commiserating over ex-wives and psychotic flatmates. With John’s new found epiphany about Sherlock and the love he has for him, Greg’s supposedly joking comments he’s made feel heavier with meaning now… _Christ, did everybody know except me?_ _“-seriously, happy Christmas John, I’ll expect full details of how the case went when you get back. Enjoy yourself and try not to let Sherlock cause a ruckus over in Milan as well. Just London being in a constant state of recovery is quite enough to handle.”_

John shakes his head, faintly amused. There is one message left, it’s from Julia Almont. The two of them had exchanged phone numbers last night, just in case. In the end John has decided she’s not so bad.

 

_“Merry Christmas Dr. Watson! I hope you and Sherlock find time to eat, drink and be jolly, or whatever it is people say. I’ve never been one to celebrate Christmas myself, but when I pop over later we are going to have some fun alright? You’ll have to help me get Sherlock a bit tipsy, or how is it you British say it? Pissed right? Because I bought him a Santa hat and something tells me he won’t wear it otherwise…”_ John laughs out loud at that. _Oh god, poor Sherlock._ _“You’re probably laughing now, but I have an elf hat for you so don’t get cocky!”_ _Damnit._ John groans and wipes a hand down his now yawning face. _“Alright, alright, all kidding aside, I hope you’re feeling better today. And John…my Sherlock’s name was Catherine, I’d rather not cry today so I won’t go into details, but suffice to say I missed my chance with her. Please, be happy, and don’t make my mistake…you may find you’re not as alone in how you feel as you think. Take care; give the big lug a hair ruffle for me.”_

 

John is still for a few moments after listening to Julia’s message.

 

It hasn’t even been a day since John grasped the full nature of his feelings; he hasn’t even begun to seriously consider _doing_ something about them…he just, he can’t. Not yet, maybe not ever, but…he can’t deny that a part of him wants to and fuck the consequences.

For months he’s been saying to himself that if enough time passes, things will go back to the way they were and Sherlock and he will be alright and everything will make sense again, like the way they used to. Perhaps it would be easier that way…however, John has seldom been one to take the easy path, and even when he has, it has never, not once, worked out for him in the long run.

Go back to the way they used to be? John can almost hear Sherlock calling him an idiot now. Perhaps the better question to ask would be _‘If I could go back, would I?”_

_No, I wouldn’t._

 

No matter the pain and suffering John has experienced as a result of all his time with Sherlock, the rewards have proven time and again to outweigh the consequences.

 

John breathes deeply and hangs up the phone. He’ll respond to the messages later. Right now John needs to compose himself and see what the git is up to, and then maybe order breakfast; John’s stomach rumbles and his mouth waters at the thought of plates of eggs, bangers and tea, perhaps some sticky buns because it’s Christmas.

 

He takes a series of deep, steading breaths as he pushes himself up from the bed. Putting weight on his leg still causes pain, but it’s bearable.

John reaches for the cane leant to him by Julia, and begins to hobble his way over to the adjoining loo.

John barely makes it more than two steps before his mobile rings. He groans and turns around to see Mycroft’s name flashing across the screen.

 

_Oh hell, what now?_

 

The urge to roll his eyes and ignore it is nearly irresistible. Still, the man is as determined as Sherlock, if he wants something, he’ll get it eventually…might as well get it over with. John hobbles back over to his phone, remains standing and picks up the ringing device.

 

“What do you want Mycroft?” John answers, perhaps a tad edgy.

 

If he could see him, John is positive Mycroft would have a raised eyebrow.

 

“Happy Christmas to you too John, I’m sure you’re relieved to have your little…adventure resolved in time to enjoy this festive holiday.” The man is actually teasing him.

 

Mycroft has always been proficient at speaking without inflection, while at the same time conveying an entirely different meaning with his words.

And of course he knows about last night, the man probably had spies tailing them.

John isn’t sure what it says about him that he’s become this good at reading the Holmes brothers.

 

“Happy Christmas Mycroft.” John says; because he is capable of being courteous, even though he would really rather know why Mycroft is calling _him._ “Now, why are you _really_ calling me and not Sherlock?”

 

There is silence for a moment, during which John thinks he hears Mycroft take a deep breath. That more than anything is telling about the tone of this conversation.

 

“Let’s put aside the fact that Sherlock would not answer if I bothered to call him, my purpose in calling is entirely to speak with you. I take it my brother hasn’t said anything to you has he?” Mycroft sounds exasperated, though this is not exceptional since he usually sounds like that when talking about or with Sherlock.

 

John frowns and sits back down on the bed.

 

“What are you talking about?” Is there something else going on that Sherlock hasn’t told John about? Something to do with why they’re here in Milan maybe? John begins to feel frustrated, also nothing exceptional when talking about or with either of the Holmes brothers.

 

“You don’t need to say anything further John, this will be over much faster that way and I think we can both agree that is what we would both prefer. I merely have a few words of advice you, and since my brother is being irretrievably foolish, I’ll say them for him if only to spare myself any more headaches over this.”

 

Now John is even more confused. He tenses and his hand tightens around the mobile. _Mycroft is one to talk about bloody headaches…_ John can’t even remember the last time he went a day without getting at _least_ one because of overexposure to Holmes genetics.

 

“Dr. Watson, I need not tell you than I am not a sentimental man-” John barely resists the urge to snort. “-my brother would tell you the same about himself. For the most part it is true, however in recent years he has undoubtedly become one of the most emotionally prone people in my wide sphere of acquaintance. The only difference is he is remarkable at appearing otherwise to the general populace, but not from me as he is uncomfortably aware. This is hardly difficult since people like to take things at face value all too often. In addition, my brother has made mistakes and decisions he would not have made years ago. Admittedly, at first I was worried this would ultimately bring him more harm than good. Of course I couldn’t say anything, knowing him he would do the exact opposite of what I advised simply to spite me. He is rather childish that way.” Mycroft breathes deeply.

 

Inwardly John is reeling, mostly because he has absolutely _no_ idea where Mycroft is going with this, and that Mycroft has the bloody gall to be saying this at all. So far the conversation has John feeling apprehensive on what his ultimate point will turn out to be.

“I believe you would be more willing to at least listen to my advice, so I will give it. Do what you will with the information, but I urge you to take it very seriously, I don’t need to tell you the… _consequences_ may well be severe if you don’t. Do I make myself clear?”

 

John feels like he’s in some pseudo Mob movie being warned by the big bad boss to listen to him lest he get his nuts blown off.

John isn’t afraid of Mycroft, but since Mycroft is talking about Sherlock he has John’s attention – which the man very well knows. He nods though Mycroft can’t see him.

 

“Very.” John says.

 

Mycroft hums as though pleased.

 

“I’ll get straight to the point. My brother has feelings for you he doesn’t know how to express. Nor is he convinced they are even returned. He is torn and uncertain of how to proceed, given that this is an area in which he has very little experience. My brother would never openly admit it but his biggest fear is of losing you. The evidence of this is glaringly obvious, if you need me to tell you that than you are markedly less intelligent than Sherlock perpetuates; which would only further my point in his regard for you. I ask you to consider this, why do you _really_ think Sherlock has been cautious around you especially after all that business with Moran and Moriarty? I know you’ve noticed, and I also know that you yourself exhibit many signs that show me your regard for my brother is not simply one of friendship. Also your propensity to be stubborn rivals even that of Sherlock, and so I strongly encourage you do something John.  I would prefer my brother not be hurt in the process, though if that is the end result then so be it, just remember I have no compunction about making sure all your bullet wounds match. Take care John; I hope you have a pleasant holiday. Give my regards to Sherlock.”

 

Before John can even say a word, there is a click indicating Mycroft has hung up.

 

It wouldn’t have even mattered if Mycroft had waited a moment or two, John is dumbstruck; mouth parted, grip on the mobile slack, heart pounding, body slack, thoughts whizzing loudly around his head.

 

He is furious.

 

_Did Mycroft just give me his own version of ‘you hurt my brother and I’ll kill you’ speech? Yes, he did._

 

John thought over Mycroft’s words as he woodenly replaced the mobile on his nightstand, he thought over them as he stripped naked and took a long shower (leg properly bandaged), he thought over them some more as he brushed his teeth, dried his hair, and got dressed in a bright red Christmas jumper and jeans.

And as John stands poised and ready to open the door into the sitting, presumably where Sherlock is, Sherlock’s gift in hand, John thinks about them some more while staring at the medium sized box in his hand.

 

John pulled the gift from where he had packed it in before leaving, knowing they would be in Milan over Christmas. Sherlock can either be surprisingly easy, or incredibly hard to buy for, John had trouble thinking of what to get this year what with this being so…strained between them. He eventually settled on a pair of joke elf slippers complete with bells – mostly just to see the look on Sherlock’s face, and well, Sherlock could always use them in some experiment if he wanted – and the contact information of a school friend of John’s from the University of London who had recently informed him they would soon be in the possession of cadavers with rare skin mutations and diseases, John had pulled a few strings and managed to arrange for Sherlock to be the first one to examine them and do what he wishes, within reason of course.

 

This all just…seems not quite real.

 

Mrs. Hudson saying Sherlock loves him…John can write that off as being the hopes of a romantic older woman that cares about them.

Greg implying it John can write off as Greg playing into and teasing him about the many assumptions people have made about him and Sherlock in the past.

Even Julia with her knowledge and experience John can write off as being influenced by her own past and the fact that she’s really only actually seen and spoken to Sherlock a handful of times.

 

Mycroft however…Mycroft, he is perhaps the only person who knows Sherlock better than John (up to a point), maybe even the Detective himself. If Mycroft, of all people – president of the anti-sentiment pro logic club, basically implied ‘Sherlock is in love with you’ …how can John, rationally take what he said as anything but the truth?

However, no matter what Mycroft says, the only person who can confirm it for certain is Sherlock.

John likes to believe he is brave, but with not just his own heart but potentially also Sherlock’s on the line, John wonders if he can do what Mycroft all but point blanked asked him to do.

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

 

_You’ll know, you’ll know when you see him…you have to. You were a soldier John, you can do this._

No point in putting off the inevitable then. John turns the knob, opens the door and steps into the sitting room as though he hadn’t just been having a personal crisis on the other side.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

John had been expecting to see Sherlock still prone on the sofa even though it’s been hours, it wouldn’t be the first time, but what John sees is something differently entirely.

Sherlock is most definitely sitting up (wearing suit trousers and a white button up shirt) in one of the two green armchairs on either side of the sofa. The other is occupied by Mrs. Amelia Blackhart.

Sherlock’s back is to John, while the elderly Mrs. Blackhart is dressed in a red nightgown and robe ensemble sitting in the armchair opposite; the bright red and green contrast only adds to the atmosphere of the room, now decorated with multiple sets of white and blue lights that were most definitely not there the night before… _what the hell? Who-?_ It is then that John notices Mrs. Blackhart has a wreath in her lap covered with gaudy golden bows.

 

_Oh._

 

“Aw come on dearie! No Christmas is complete without a wreath; you have to have one I insist!” Amelia Blackhart shakes the item in question at Sherlock, her slightly drooping though brightly alert eyes pleading with Sherlock to relent. John also notices at that point that her long white hair is tied up into a bun with a gold ribbon very much like the ones on the wreath.

 

“I _barely_ relented with the inclusion of lights in the hotel room, what makes you think I’ll agree to hang up that pointless piece of decoration for even a moment? The answer, is _no_.” Sherlock says, definitely crossing the edge of mildly annoyed to downright frustration that will likely lead to poor Mrs. Blackhart being ejected from the room in some form if John doesn’t intervene.

 

Neither Sherlock nor Amelia has yet to notice John, and this…this is far, far too amusing.

John will interfere _before_ they come to fisticuffs, but until then…John quietly leans against the wall, Sherlock’s gift in hand, and settles into observe the two for as long as he can get away with it.

With the conversation with Mycroft still fresh in his mind, John’s eyes drift towards Sherlock. He can only see the back of the Detectives head from here, and a part of him wants desperately to move so he can see his face. He’s no Sherlock, but he wants to look at him, _observe_ him, to see for himself if he can see what it is everyone else seems to…well, _see_.

 

“Oh please Sherlock! I’ve already got my room all gussied up, you wouldn’t let me put the nativity set on the mantle over there, but it would be sacrilegious to not have a _wreath!_ ” Amelia Blackhart’s mouth is twisted sadly, but there is a twinkle in her eye that leads John to suspect she is having just as much fun messing with Sherlock as John is watching it happen.

 

John bites his lip in order to confine the laughter begging to escape, his free hand covers his mouth.

 

“ _That_ makes absolutely no sense.”

 

John has no doubt that Sherlock is rolling his eyes.  He smiles.

 

Amelia dismisses what Sherlock says with a wave of her hand.

 

“It’s such a small thing though, after the way you two boys abandoned me at the Opera last night-”

 

“I have already explained the circumstances to you, and you made it very clear you understood completely-”

 

“-Putting up a small token such as this isn’t a lot to ask now is it?” Mrs. Blackhart continues, speaking right over Sherlock.

 

“I don’t know what I find most frustrating, the fact that you are being deliberately obtuse or that you honestly believe this manipulative guilt routine will work on someone of my observational skill and emotional control.” Sherlock sighs, turning away from the woman in front of him to face out the window.

 

Amelia Blackhart’s smile then reminds John suspiciously of that creepy cartoon Grinch.

 

“It worked with the lights.” She grins, shaking the wreath at Sherlock again.

 

_This is too perfect._

 

John has his arms wrapped around his belly now, and he won’t be surprised if he comes away from this with teeth marks on his lip. The truth is Sherlock has always been surprisingly cordial and tolerant, for him anyway, when it comes to motherly older women. After meeting Mrs. Holmes, John stopped wondering why.

 

“Mrs. Blackhart, if you insist on hanging up that wreath I _will_ set it on fire and throw it out the window.” Sherlock is definitely _not_ kidding. “Along with the small tree you placed by the door, don’t think I didn’t notice that.” He turns to face Amelia again.

 

They’re both openly glaring at each other now, and John is wishing he brought his mobile out with him so he could record it.

Regardless, even though Sherlock is being surprisingly tolerant here and Mrs. Blackhart might as well worship the ground Sherlock walks on, because John doubts there is anything the man could say that would actually offend her, John will rescue the poor man…soon.

 

“You need a few lessons in fun young man.” Mrs. Blackhart mutters.

 

Sherlock huffs. “I am perfectly content with my version of _fun_.”

 

Amelia looks like she’s trying to fight back a giggle, much like John actually.

 

“Solving crimes with that brilliant mind of yours?” She’s smiling openly now, hands clasped and body language much more relaxed than most people when in Sherlock’s presence.

 

Sherlock chuckles deeply. “And beating corpses with my riding crop to study post-mortem bruising.”

 

John restrains a sigh and rolls his eyes, locking away his reaction to hearing ‘Sherlock’ talking about using a ‘riding crop’ for another, later, _much_ later time.

Amelia looks amused rather than horrified.

 

“You silly man, fine forget the wreath-” The sound Sherlock exhales here make it seem like he’s been in pain for so long and someone has finally offered him a miracle instant pain killer. “-ooh! How about some ribbon? I brought some more of that lovely gold ribbon with, it would look absolutely gorgeous with those locks of your-”

 

“Mrs. Blackhart! Good morning and Happy Christmas!” John shouts.

 

Yes John was enjoying the little scene, but even from behind Sherlock looked about ready to combust or run away in horror when Amelia started talking about putting things in his _hair._ John figures the poor man has suffered enough.

 

Sherlock whips around at the sound of Johns voice; looking immeasurably, _beyond_ relieved to see him.

Amelia adjusts the glasses on her eyes, and then her face lights up when she notices John.

 

“John, I demand sanctuary from his woman. She has been trying subliminal methods of homicide for the past twenty minutes.”

 

Mrs. Blackhart makes a sort of ‘phshaw’ noise and waves a dismissive hand at the Detective.

 

“Are you telling me the great Sherlock Holmes can’t handle dealing with little old ladies?” John’s eyes twinkle as he comes to stand behind the sofa, in between Sherlock and Mrs. Blackhart.

 

“I say! Who are you calling little young man? I’ll have you know I was the tallest in my class when I was thirteen.” Mrs. Blackhart puts upon a look of mock offense.

 

John would never have been able to get away with saying something like that, even in jest as he did just now, with his father’s mother. She was Mrs. Blackhart’s opposite in every way.

 

“I’m sure you were, and the lights are lovely, thank-you ma’am.” John reaches out and clasps a gentle hand on her shoulder.

 

Amelia blushes. “Oh no need to thank me John; I quite enjoy spreading cheer wherever I go.” John ignores the snort from Sherlock’s direction. “And I managed to rope our dear Sherlock here into hanging a couple of sets of lights up.”

 

John looks at Sherlock with some surprise then – whenever John had decorated back at 221b, more often than not Sherlock would just pretend it wasn’t happening, it usually took some bribing to get him to help, but mostly John just ended up doing it himself.

It is the first time John has looked Sherlock full in the face since walking into the room. Right now he looks like he’s trying desperately hard not to be embarrassed, looking at neither John nor Amelia, his head resting back on the chair, legs crossed and arms casually laid across the sides of the chair. Those eyes, so transfixing, are looking anywhere but at the two people watching him with delight.

John’s inner thought from before he entered the room comes to him then:

 

_You’ll know, you’ll know when you see him…_

John closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep shaky breath. _Indeed._

He smiles, perhaps a bit too wide and looks at Mrs. Blackhart.

 

“It was nice of you to pay us a visit, and I’m sorry about last night.” John walks around to her chair, leans his cane up against it and helps her get up when she struggles to stand for a short moment. She quickly waves him away once she’s standing; all in all she is surprisingly fit for a woman of her age.

 

“It’s alright dearie, Sherlock explained what happened and I wouldn’t want you to put any more pressure on your leg. I’ll just toddle off now; I hope you have a wonderful day and happy Christmas!” Amelia Blackhart gives John a brief hug, which he accepts and then blows Sherlock a kiss.

 

Sherlock accepts the gesture with surprising grace and nods at her.

John escorts the elderly woman out of the suite and gently closes the door behind her.

They are alone. His gift for Sherlock feels like a steel weight in his hand, and without another person in the mix John feels Sherlock’s gaze on him like the red beam of a sniper rifle.

John doesn’t look at Sherlock. He doesn’t look at him when he turns around, and he doesn’t look at him when he walks over to the chair. He waits until he’s sat down in the chair Mrs. Blackhart just vacated and has placed the medium sized box in his lap.

 _Then_ he looks up at Sherlock. John notices the man’s eye flick up towards him, presumably from where he’d been giving the gift a cursory glance.

 

A beat of silence.

 

Sherlock rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and then touches the tips of his fingers to the edge of his lip.

John rests a single elbow on the chair, with his head on his palm, laying the other hand atop his wounded leg.

Sherlock looks every inch the deducing Detective. John keeps his gaze, and remains silent for the time being, even though he has no idea what it is Sherlock is trying to figure out while looking at John.

John starts to squirm a little when Sherlock’s stare doesn’t relent. The latter’s eyes zero in on the movement immediately.

John doesn’t squirm, and Sherlock knows it.

 

_Well, this is awkward._

 

John tries to act casual even though his heart is pounding fast. At least Sherlock doesn’t seem as stony as he had been during the latter part of the evening, which John supposes – if Mycroft is right – would make sense given what John said. _If_ Mycroft’s right.

 

“Mycroft called you.” Sherlock suddenly says, effectively breaking the silence.

 

“He did yeah.” There is really no point in coming up with an excuse, Sherlock would know if John lied either way. This doesn’t mean John is going to recite the entirety of the conversation however.

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, _and?_

John raises one right back, not giving into the bait. _What?_

Sherlock looks annoyed for a moment but shakes it off quickly. He is the first to break eye contact, looking off to the side and replacing his hands back on the armrests; the fingers begin tapping out a staccato rhythm almost immediately.

He’s anxious. Well, John is too, but what reason does Sherlock have to anxious for?

 

John frowns.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock jumps out of the chair at the sound of John’s voice.

 

_What the…_

 

John watches as Sherlock strides across the room, to a hook on the wall by the door; where both their coats are hung. Sherlock’s back is to John, rummaging around in the long coat.

John feels increasingly more baffled as Sherlock walks back over, a long, thin rectangular envelope in hand. He stands beside John and holds out the envelope. The only thing on it is John’s name, written in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock isn’t someone who gives gifts, not often anyway, but this is what it must be right? John knows he must look like an idiot to the Detective with his jaw flapping in surprise and his eyes going from Sherlock to the envelope and back; not quite trusting that it isn’t something hazardous.

Sherlock gestures the envelope in John’s direction a bit more insistently; reminding John briefly of Amelia with the wreath.

 

“I can personally guarantee there is no anthrax in here.” Sherlock interjects with a raised brow.

 

John shakes himself out of his stupor and exhales a laugh.

 

“Well, I never know with you. You have poisoned me before.” John reaches out and takes the envelope from Sherlock’s hand.

 

Sherlock smiles a bit then, and shrugs.

 

“You weren’t damaged.”

 

John gives him a narrow-eyed look.

 

“I would call memory loss damage Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” John murmurs and looks down at the envelope in his hands, wondering what on earth it could be.

 

Sherlock hums noncommittally. John smiles a bit. He flips the envelope around and begins to undue the seal with a nail.

John becomes abruptly aware that Sherlock hasn’t moved and is still standing beside him like a sentinel on guard…far, far too close.

 

“Uh…Sherlock?” John looks up at the tall man.

 

“Yes, aren’t you going to open it?”

 

Sherlock is _too_ still to be considered relaxed, and the faint movement of his arms behind him indicate he’s doing the finger-tapping thing again.

 

“Not until you sit. You’re making me nervous.” John tries to laugh it off.

 

“Oh.” Sherlock seems almost surprised, like he hadn’t realized until just now that he is basically looming over John.

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock moves without further encouragement. He walks over to his chair and sits in it much like he was before, but if anything the staccato tapping is more insistent than before, and he won’t quite meet John’s eyes.

John had been curious, now he’s feeling genuinely worried. What’s going on?

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Happy Christmas John.” Sherlock quickly gestures towards John and the envelope, still not looking at John directly.

 

John closes his mouth and sighs. Might as well see whatever it is that has Sherlock ready to jump to the ceiling.

John flips open the flap. He can’t deny that he’s touched by the gesture itself, no matter what it turns out to be.

John can’t even guess at what Sherlock would get him that would fit in –

 

John’s eyes widen and his brow creases… _what…what_ … “ _What_ is _this?_ ” It perhaps comes out louder than he intended, but…he quickly looks up at Sherlock for an explanation.

 

In his hands is a piece of paper with only four words written on it, also in Sherlock’s hand:

 

 

                                      _The John Watson Foundation_

 

 

To say John is confused would be an understatement. He doesn’t know what to feel.

 

Sherlock finally meets John’s eyes; his hands have stopped moving and his entire body is thrumming with a tension John cannot understand the reason for…beyond the fact that it has something do with the piece of paper John is holding.

Sherlock breathes deeply and stares at John like it’s physically difficult to do so.

 

“My grandmother died when I was twelve, and like my mother she encouraged and validated my interest in science and chemistry. She was also well off, and when she died, left a significant portion of her wealth to me in her will, to be held in trust for me until I turned eighteen. However, by that point I had already indulged in cocaine and heroin. Mycroft, even at that point in time, held a position of strong influence, strong enough to make sure that I couldn’t have access to my trust until I was clean for at least a year. I never had any great desire for that amount of money anyway; it wasn’t much of a loss. It wasn’t until the year before you and I met that the trust finally became available to me. I didn’t touch it, I didn’t want it. And to be honest I forgot about it for a while, I was managing and so it became unimportant information.” Sherlock looks a way for a moment, waving a hand dismissively.

 

John holds back a snort, only Sherlock would view what seems like a large inheritance as unimportant enough to _forget_. John’s still not getting what this has to do with him though… “Several months ago, I had an idea, a way to put the money to good use since I had no intention of using it.”

 

Sherlock pauses again at this point, his fingers begin to tap again and he keeps his eyes unblinking on John’s. _Why…_ “I made contact with several of my own connections, and with ample research and thought I created a not for profit foundation that would offer life-time financial support to Veterans for their various maladies and needs, in addition to providing support to people negatively affected by war in Afghanistan and other Middle Eastern countries. The people I hired to run it actively are trustworthy enough, and Mycroft made some recommendations of his own since even though I was able to do much of the work on my own, ultimately I needed Mycroft’s help in order to make this enterprise a reality, especially within a relatively short period of time. The amount of money in my trust is significant, however it isn’t unending. The entirety of it has been entirely transferred over and will sustain all activities and support within the foundation for at least several years. I have no doubt however that the donations will be plentiful for a very long time. With my connections and Mycroft’s, contributions have already been coming in for the past two months and plans have already been put into action in order to make the goals of this foundation… _your_ foundation a reality.”

 

It is Sherlock’s emphasis on ‘ _your_ ’ that puts the final puzzle piece into place for John.

 

John just stares.

 

And stares.

 

And continues to _stare_.

 

John is sure his heart and stomach must be somewhere by his feet, his eyes and mouth must be dry from being open for so long. And the paper which John had been holding onto is clenched tightly in John’s fist as he fights the… _something_ threatening to burst out of his skin. The sheer, _overwhelming_ emotion he’s feeling, which only grows stronger as the full weight, the incredible generosity, of what Sherlock has done is just starting to _truly_ sink in.

 

_This…is incredible, god, I can’t even begin to…_

 

Sherlock… _Sherlock. What have you done? You…fucking hell._

 

When John saw the envelope held out to him in Sherlock’s manicured hand, he never would’ve thought that something like this would be inside.

It’s unbelievable. It must have been _millions_ of pounds, and Sherlock is giving it all away to people John knows really, _really_ need it and…and honouring John in the process.

Just… _wow,_ Sherlock really doesn’t do anything by halves.

With the mention of Mycroft, the fact that he even called John makes sense, because what he said… _oh god_.

John has no idea what he must look like right now. It feels like his heart is _burning._

 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds genuinely worried, and it is like a whip across John’s consciousness.

 

When John comes back to himself he realizes he has his head in his hands; curled into fists covering his hot, wet eyes that are squeezed shut to prevent tears from escaping. John is entirely tense, the way he usually is when trying to control an overwhelming emotion, usually its anger, this time it’s something else entirely.

 

_It’s true, everyone was right, oh god oh god oh god -_

 

“Are you…upset? I realize it isn’t a traditional gift-”

 

John laughs; not the best or most sane reaction to have, but he can’t help it. His hands fall and he’s laughing _hysterically._

 

John can’t believe he didn’t see it before; he really is an idiot.

 

John started laughing because it hit him fully when Sherlock spoke the second time, and the tone of voice he used is exactly the same as that moment after he’d given the central part of his best man speech at John’s wedding. Everyone was crying and Sherlock, wonderful clueless Sherlock, didn’t understand why, he’d turned to John and asked ‘ _did I do it wrong?_ ’ like John held all the answers and John…John couldn’t control himself. He hugged Sherlock, heart aching for so many reasons, some of which he is only beginning to understand now.

 

John rarely loses control like this; tears run down his face sent forth by the hysterical high of laughter brought on by shock, joy, wonder…and everything else.

 

John tries to get his breathing back enough to stare down a very confused looking Sherlock.

 

“Did you _seriously_ just ask if I was _upset?_ ” John manages to speak before another bought of laughter hits him. _Oh you foolish, glorious, wonderful, idiotic man…_

 

Sherlock’s mouth flaps a few times, clearly unsure how to respond, and he’s giving John a look; clearly wondering if John is devolving into insanity.

For some reason that thought causes John to laugh even louder and he fully collapses into the chair, head facing the ceiling.

Sherlock would probably roll his eyes at the sheer romanticism and over usage of the metaphor, but right now John really feels like he’s a blind man seeing the sun for the first time; indescribable, overwhelming, too much for the brain to even process that it has to cry, or laugh. Freedom. That’s what this is. _Freedom._

_Who are you now John Watson?_

 

It makes sense in a way. Meeting Sherlock was like taking in a breath of the freshest air, and John had never felt freer. When he lost Sherlock, it felt like a part of him died right along with him…a part that didn’t return until Sherlock himself did.

 

“John, are you alright? John!”

 

John’s view of the ceiling is suddenly blocked by Sherlock’s face; at this point he is frantic and on the verge of calling for help.

 

John squeezes his eyes shut. If he continues to see Sherlock right now he’ll never calm down. “I’m fine; really, just…just give me a moment.” John is able to speak relatively clearly this time. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John can sense the man hasn’t moved from standing over John. “Sherlock, move please.”

 

John’s laughter dies off and his tears begin to dry, though the feelings are no less intense.

 

It takes a moment but he hears Sherlock finally move off somewhere.

 

John takes a deep, restoring breath. As with any chaotic situation, a person can search a long time for the center where everything is clear, where the way forward is as evident as the chaos itself. Some never find it. In the army, John was trained to find it wherever possible. John couldn’t find it in the miasma of feelings surrounding him in regards to Sherlock.

 _Now_ , now John has realized that the reason he couldn’t figure out how to move forward and find that center was because it never existed. John was already there and just never realized it. Sherlock is an entity unto himself; Sherlock is chaos with no set path. He exists, and John is right there with him, irrevocably, and deeply. 

John never thought he would fall in love with a man, or that a man such as Sherlock would love him back. It is terrifying, and so undeniably _real._

He opens his eyes and immediately spots Sherlock standing next to his own chair; his arms wrapped around his torso with his hands gripping his elbows. Sherlock’s expression isn’t quite as worried as before, not on the verge of calling for an ambulance at any rate, now he looks more confused and impatient, the latter because he is obviously waiting for John to explain his reaction, and he can’t figure it out himself.

 

Without taking his eyes off Sherlock standing before him, John picks up his own gift for Sherlock and sets it on the end table to his left. He stands up from the chair – inwardly muttering a ‘ _fuck you I’m doing this’_ to his wounded leg insisting on expressing its pain – and walks over to Sherlock as smoothly, and steadily as he can.

 _You can do this; you love this man, so what if he’s a man? In the great scheme of things, are you really going to let the fact that he has a cock get in the way? You were miserable before, you’re attracted to him and always have been even when you pretended otherwise, tell your long held supposed heterosexuality to fuck itself._ John privately chants.

 

_What was it Mum used to say? ‘There will always come a time when a lie will hurt more than the truth.’_

 

Sherlock had been moving a bit restlessly before, but the closer John gets the stiller and more baffled Sherlock gets.

John stops only an inch or two in front of Sherlock and just… _looks_ at him, his goddamn nerves choosing now to actually hit him.

 

_Is this a mistake? I can’t lose him, not again…_

 

Sherlock blinks rapidly. “John…?”

 

_Oh fuck it._

 

John reaches up, grasps the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls the Detective to meet his mouth with his own; sensual, a little bit open, wet, and gloriously, _wonderfully_ warm.

 

_Oh._

 

Sherlock freezes. John is about to move away when he feels large, perhaps slightly wary, hands grasp the sides of his jumper. John sighs in relief, squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his mouth firmer onto Sherlock’s, determined to get as close as he can.

 

_Oh god, yes._

 

John is almost afraid to break the kiss, afraid that moving away will break the spell. He slides arms around Sherlock’s waist, holding him as tight as he dares, while Sherlock’s hands slide up Johns back. John feels the most incredible tingles fly across his skin as he feels one of those artist hands brush alongside his neck, give it a small squeeze before moving up, _up_ into his hair.

 

_Perfect._

 

“John…” Sherlock sighs against his lips.

 

John hums and moves forward to capture those wonderful lips again, but Sherlock leans back an inch; it doesn’t escape John’s notice however that if possible, Sherlock is holding onto him – one arm around his waist and one hand in his hair – even tighter than before…like he’s afraid too.

 

_“My brother would never admit it but his biggest fear is of losing you.”_

 

“John, I don’t understand.” Sherlock utters softly. “Why are you…?”

 

John opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock. The Detective has his eyes shut painfully tight, his face twisted in pain; his hands are spasmodically loosening and squeezing John closer, tighter to him.

 

“Sherlock, look at me.” John speaks firmly, but softly.

 

Sherlock doesn’t move, continuing to breathe unevenly across John’s mouth. John almost cries to see that look on Sherlock’s face, the man refusing to open eyes…he looks _so_ vulnerable.

John sighs and slides his arms further up Sherlock’s back, and then down again, attempting a soothing motion he hopes will reassure the Detective.

 

“Sherlock, please.” John tries again. _I need to say this to you directly, please._

 

Sherlock tenses for a moment, as though bracing himself. He opens his eyes, John can almost see it visibly happen; Sherlock preparing himself to retreat, to hide behind the façade of uncaring, the impassive mask. 

Well, that won’t do.

 

“Sherlock, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Tell me you understand, alright?” John moves his arms to Sherlock’s front and then slides them up his chest, skimming his neck and then holding that statuesque face with those eyes brimming with boundless brilliance and almost childlike innocence. Sherlock is a man filled with a never-ending supply of paradoxes.

Sherlock’s brow morphs into a frown, but he nods. John feels the hand in his hair slide down and hold onto John’s shoulder.

 

“I’m _not_ walking away. I’m _not_ going to leave. Do you understand that?”

 

Sherlock’s face twitches, a flash of fear coming to his eyes like he hadn’t realized how much of himself he was showing to John. “John, what are-”

 

“Sherlock.” John eyes him firmly. He has to do this right. There is no room for mistakes here. John won’t, _can’t_ , fuck this up.

 

Sherlock sighs, bites his lip and nods.

 

“I understand.” Sherlock sounds winded.

 

John smiles. This is it; you can do this, Captain John Watson Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, run the rest of the mile and make yourself into a complete sappy idiot.

John holds the sides of Sherlock’s face firmly.

 

“I _love_ you, so much, Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?”

 

It is the first time John has said the words out loud…he finds it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. John can’t help it; he quickly darts forward to plant another, shorter, sweeter kiss on his mouth before drawing away. Sherlock’s expression hasn’t changed. He appears frozen much the same way he was when John first kissed him.

John draws a calloused finger across one of those angular cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes flutter and he sighs at the touch.

 

“John.” Sherlock swallows.

 

“Yes?” John smiles.

 

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly become alert and focused the way they are when first coming upon a crime scene, flicking all over John’s face at a near dizzying speed. John knows Sherlock is observing him for the smallest hint of deception or lie.

He won’t find any.

It barely takes a second until Sherlock gasps, his eyes widen and Sherlock pulls John to him so they’re standing chest to chest.

 

“You mean it.” Sherlock speaks, his voice much closer to his usual baritone than the breathless whisper of before.

 

John finds it strangely reassuring that it doesn’t sound like a question, Sherlock observed John. Sherlock _knows_.

Yesterday, John wouldn’t have been able to say this.

Today, on the 25th of December, he can.

 

“Completely.” John nods and moves his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezes tightly.

 

And then, the most beautiful, miraculous thing happens.

Sherlock smiles; wider and more genuine than he ever has before. John suddenly finds himself squished from head to toe against Sherlock when those long arms wrap around him and _squeeze._

It is uncomfortable, and painful, but John wraps his own arms around Sherlock just as tightly and John doesn’t give a damn. Especially when he feels a set of hot, soft lips brush against his neck and the sound of Sherlock breathing heavily against John’s hair.

It never would have occurred to John, even two days ago, that he would be _here_ , right now, with Sherlock; holding onto to each other with more than a little measure of desperation, in a hotel in _Milan_ of all places on Christmas.

 

 _Milan…_ John suddenly has a flash of insight.

 

“Sherlock?” John asks.

 

“Mm?” Sherlock hums against his neck.

 

John pulls back, and doesn’t even bother holding back an amused grin when he notices Sherlock pouting. He keeps his arms around Sherlock however, which seems to please the Detective.

 

“Why did you really agree to come to Milan? No _way_ would you willingly leave London unless a case called for it. I can’t see you agreeing to something this benign just because you owed Mycroft a favour, especially without being a dick to him first.” John asks with a skeptical eyebrow raise. It is something John had been thinking about on and off, and certainly with Sherlock’s incredible gift the man’s quick agreement to Mycroft’s request it is explained to a degree…but John’s intuition tells him there’s more to it.

 

Sherlock gives John a laughing smile, and nods at him as if to say _‘you may have a point’_.

The smile fades however as Sherlock looks away and out towards the window, his expression a thoughtful one. Sherlock rids himself of it with a shake and a long exhale. He watches John’s face for a moment, and John waits for an answer.

He doesn’t get one immediately.

Sherlock pulls away completely and his hands fall from John’s face and back. John feels abruptly cold, in more ways than one. John doesn’t move when Sherlock slowly walks over to the window and stands in front of it, observing the world outside like he has done so many times in 221b.

Sherlock is a man who hesitates to show even the slightest sign of vulnerability or humanity. Right now may simply be that whatever it is he’s thinking about has him wanting a moment to himself. Given the intensity, and suddenness, of what just happened, John can’t say he blames him.

So John remains where he is, even though he would like nothing more than to walk over there and wrap himself around the taller man – tense and statuesque in front of the window - and tell him that he won’t think him any less brilliant and capable for letting himself go once in a while.

 

This is Sherlock though; John can’t expect him to be something he isn’t.

 

“I am sure you’ve noticed our equilibrium has not been the same for long time, and I found myself…unsure how to proceed. I have observed that sometimes a change of scenery can bring about resolution for certain individuals. I didn’t know what else to do.” Sherlock finally begins to speak. “I _despise_ not knowing. Events of recent years have proven to me I am not as much of an expert in regards to human nature as I once thought myself to be. I have tried, time and time again, to understand why I am affected by you the way I am. It doesn’t make sense; I have always been able to remain objective in everything I do. In understanding that love is merely chemicals and neurons firing in the brain often more trouble than they’re worth, obscuring the facts, weakening the mind and even killing its victims, even with all that I _know_ I _should_ have been able to control it, to understand, and yet no matter how hard I tried, no matter what happened or what I did…I…I lost myself, I lost myself John. It became apparent that there was nothing more I could do, I had no choice but accept the inevitable and obvious…Truly and undeniably for the first time I was confronted with a mystery I could not – _cannot_ solve.” Sherlock’s level control over his voice slowly disintegrated as he kept up with his soliloquy, until finally he has to reach out and grasp the window frame (one hand on either side) with his head resting on the cold glass of the window. “I’m _weak._ ”

 

The pain, anger and sheer _frustration_ in those last two words have John moving before he can think it through. There are so many ways John could counter what Sherlock just said, but it is hard to take this confession of Sherlock’s for anything other than what it is, a cry for answers and understanding.

His leg throbs as he quickly strides over, but John doesn’t care. He reaches Sherlock and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist from behind.

It breaks John’s heart when he feels Sherlock sag and hears a ragged exhale.

 

“You’re not weak, you’re just inexperienced, and you are the strongest man I know, human just like the rest of us.” John is firm, and emphasizes his point with a squeeze.

 

Sherlock laughs bitterly. “Somehow I find your biased opinion less than reassuring.”

 

John shrugs. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

 

Sherlock hums. John can tell he doesn’t really believe him.

 

_Baby steps John, baby steps…_

 

John sighs, time to come at this from a different perspective. “Do you see me as weak?”

 

John is surprised at the speed with which Sherlock’s head comes up.

 

“ _No_ , of course not.”

 

John can’t help but feel warmed with how certain and emphatic Sherlock sounds.

 

“Then explain to me why _you’re_ weak, and I’m not.”

 

Silence. John can’t see his face, but he guesses Sherlock is frowning at his own reflection.

 

“Sherlock, every single _bloody_ person struggles with understanding their emotions. And if I make an observation of my own here, you understand by rationalizing, _everything_ , am I right?”

 

“You’re…not _wrong_.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, lilting a bit at the end.

 

_Good enough._

 

“Well, emotions _can’t_ be rationalized, not always, and I think you _know_ that but maybe…you’ve only _just_ begun to accept it in regards to yourself.” John posits. “Perhaps you’re having the Sherlock Holmes version of a midlife crisis.” He shrugs. “I know this isn’t easy for you, it isn’t easy for me either. _Nothing_ about this is going to be easy, you are without a doubt the most infuriating person I know and I concede to being far too stubborn for my own good, but I am willing to try if you are. I have no doubt it will be the ultimate challenge. If you need more time, to decide if this-” John pats Sherlock in the middle of his chest. “-is something you want to pursue, I’ll understand. Just know that you are the most important person in my life, and I don’t see that changing.” The words are difficult to get out, but they are necessary. John swallows.

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment.

 

“You are taking cues from your therapist John, almost prosaic and banal enough to become one yourself.”

 

The indirect response is light-hearted, intended to tease rather than insult, and that in of itself tells John everything he needs to know.

John gives Sherlock a narrow eyed look in the mirror and squeezes Sherlock tighter, causing the man to huff a bit; looking all too pleased with himself, which John will admit is a welcome change to the defeated, broken Sherlock of before.

 

“Shut it.” It’s true though, John isn’t quite that insightful and he did get the gist from across multiple sessions with Ella. _Damn him._ “You _arse_.” John murmurs and strokes a casual hand up Sherlock’s torso and down.

 

Sherlock is most definitely smirking now.

John pinches him lightly on the bum and pulls away.

Sherlock jumps a bit and whips his around head to level a glare at John.

 

“ _Never_ , do that again.” Sherlock growls out, one of his hands falls down from the window and lightly touches the pinched area.

 

“Oops.” John bites his lip to keep from laughing. He puts a bit of weight on his good leg and crosses his arms.

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and a mischievous gleam shines in his eye. He stalks forward; John refuses to move; instead raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the Detective.

 

Although John is wondering what he’s intending on do –

 

“ _Oi!_ ”

 

John is shocked to find he is no longer standing on the ground, but has been picked up ( _bridal style for fucks sake!_ ) by Sherlock Holmes and is being carried across the room.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?!” John glares at Sherlock murderously even while a part of John is peripherally impressed. He is not an easy man to carry.

 

“An eye for an eye John.” Sherlock grins.

 

Just when John is considering elbowing the cheeky bastard, John is dropped onto the bed with a loud _“oof!”_. He lands on the soft mattress with only a slight bounce. John is given no time to get his bearings before Sherlock is above him, straddling John on all fours.

 

John’s eyes widen. _This_ has certainly escalated quickly. “An eye for an eye?” John echoes as a question, trying not to let on how incredibly _aroused_ he is right now.

 

Sherlock’s mouth twitches as he slowly, slowly lowers his face to John’s. Suddenly their conversation is wiped from John’s present; because right now all he can see is the face he has looked at for years, secretly falling in love with it in the process, coming closer towards him…

 

“ _Shit buggering hell!_ ” John curses, painfully laughs and begins twitching like he’s being electrocuted; shocked quite successfully out of his mesmerized state by the devil that is Sherlock Holmes _tickling_ him on the front of his stomach. How the hell Sherlock knew John’s bodily weakness, he has no idea.

 

He does know that Sherlock looks far too pleased with himself.

John reaches out, swipes Sherlock’s offending hand out from under him; essentially causing the Detective to crash on his side. Even with a gunshot wound to the leg, John is incredibly skilled at hand-to-hand combat. With that in mind John rolls Sherlock over, sits himself firmly on his thighs before the squirmy bastard can move and pins Sherlock’s arms above his head; effectively immobilising him.

John is skilled, but so is Sherlock. If this had been a real fight Sherlock would’ve fought back. Seeing Sherlock playful in this manner, it is a new side to him John is really enjoying. It really is a testament to how much Sherlock trusts John to expose himself like this, not just the way he is now, but the way he did before.

 

“You will _pay_ for that Sherlock Holmes.” John promises.

 

Sherlock gulps, breathing heavily. In their position John is only a few inches away from Sherlock’s face.

 

“Oh? How so?” Sherlock breathes out, his eyes flutter.

 

John grins. He leans down and nips Sherlock’s upper lip, he relishes the gasp the taller man exhales, and then – _very firmly_ – bites the tip of his nose. When John pulls back to look at Sherlock’s face it is to see the man giving him an annoyed glare.

 

John laughs. Sherlock fights to keep the annoyed look for a moment, but it doesn’t take long before it melts away, leaving an open, relaxed expression in its place.

 

John shakes his head a little, not quite believing that this is real; happening so fast, and not fast enough. It’s dizzying to say the least.

 

John gives Sherlock a firm stare, willing the man to read him.

 

 _You’re not the only one who is afraid of losing the other,_ his eyes say.

 

Sherlock seems to get it, his eyes narrow for a moment before widening slightly and then his mouth parts with a hot breath. Sherlock breathes in a somewhat shaky breath and meets John’s eyes before nodding faintly.

 

John sighs. _I am so screwed_.

 

“I hope you know I love you.” John says without hesitation. He has never been one to say _‘I love you’_ that often when in a relationship, and he gets the impression Sherlock might not say it at all, but truthfully that doesn’t matter so much to John.

 

He can _see_ it on Sherlock’s face.

 

“I am…getting that impression.”

 

Sherlock’s face and voice are utterly calm, probably to compensate for the watering in his eyes. John doesn’t comment on it, if only to allow Sherlock his pride.

John smirks and leans down again, this time touching his forehead to Sherlock’s; purposefully mirroring Sherlock’s gesture from Christmas Eve.

 

“Oh come dolci scendono le sue lusinghe al cor…” Sherlock whispers.

 

“What does that mean?” John asks, his lips barely brushing against Sherlock’s.

 

“It is not of import.” Sherlock shrugs, as much as he is able to in this position.

 

John is curious, but decides not to push it.

Taking a risk, John lowers himself onto Sherlock completely, letting go of the man’s arms as he does so. John rests his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head; the dark curls are a stark halo on the pearl white of the pillows.

Sherlock’s hands come up to rest on John’s back; one pressing John firmer into him by pushing on his lower back, the other slides underneath John’s jumper and undershirt.

The skin to skin contact is _orgasmic._

 

John sighs and begins stroking a strand of Sherlock’s hair with his thumb.

 

“I don’t know how to do this, or even if I can, but…you are my heart, John Watson.”

 

John squeezes his eyes shut and slowly shakes his head. He quickly lowers his head into Sherlock’s neck, not quite ready to bawl himself silly in front of Sherlock.

The sentiment is somehow deeper, and filled with more meaning than ‘ _I love you’_ could ever be coming from Sherlock. The man who is accused by some to be heartless and to even profess the same thing himself…John feels more _complete_ than he has in a really, really long time, perhaps in a way he never was.

It seems like forever since John could honestly say he felt _happy,_ even when he was with Mary – before _that_ all went to hell – there was something missing.

 

A few moments of silence pass, during which Sherlock and John just lie together and _breathe_. It is more peaceful and relaxed than John ever thought Sherlock would be comfortable with, but the man seems perfectly content to lay here.

 

“John?” Sherlock speaks a few moments later. John gives a vague hum; at this rate he may even fall asleep soon… “There is a silver, _glitter_ Christmas tree on the back of your jumper.”

 

John smiles at how disgusted Sherlock sounds.

 

“You just noticed did you?” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck.

 

“It is offensive.” Sherlock adds as though John didn’t speak.

 

“It’s _festive_.”

 

John smiles wider when he hears Sherlock’s sigh of exasperation.

 

“Regardless, if you don’t take off this quite frankly, _disturbing_ jumper, I may have to re-consider this change in our relationship.”

 

John snickers and plants a firm kiss on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock harrumphs, but John feels the Detective shiver at the feeling. Those long arms tighten around John, one hand coming up to rest on top of John’s head.

A relationship, with Sherlock Holmes…John can’t think of a more wonderful adventure.

They definitely need to talk about a few things, clarify some others.

Plus, John still hasn’t given Sherlock his Christmas present yet.

For now, John knows one thing for certain.

 

He has never had a better Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Several years later, Sherlock still wears the slippers every Christmas.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! :) <3
> 
>  
> 
> 'O Soave Fanciulla' is a duet between Rodolfo and Mimi from the Opera 'La bohème' by Giacomo Puccini.


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